by Miriam Bassuk (Seattle, WA)
I can still see my mother lighting
short white candles in a silver
candelabra every Friday night
to usher in the Sabbath, to welcome
the Sabbath bride. Later that night,
our kitchen would grow dark,
save for those flickering lights.
Over the years, that tradition fell away
with a whisper I hardly noticed.
Still, there’s something cellular,
deep in my bones that connects me
to generations of women,
hands waving three times, covering
their eyes as they say the prayer.
I feel their hum and sway, and realize
the link to this tradition grows
ever diluted with each new decade.
Though I no longer feel drawn
to light candles on Friday night,
this memory stays with me as sacred.
Miriam Bassuk’s poems have appeared in Snapdragon, Between the Lines, PoetsWest Literary Journal, and 3 Elements Review. She was one of the featured poets in WA 129, a project sponsored by Tod Marshall, the Washington State poet laureate. As an avid poet, she has been charting the journey of living in these uncertain times beyond Covid.
The Jewish Writing Project 
A nice reverie, but consider taking up the ritual again so that it is more than a fading memory, and one you can pass to the next generation.
tender memory, sad reality
Lovely—wonderful image of keeping a memory as sacred.