![]() ![]() Since that difficult year, my children and I have been lighting the menorah each Hanukkah ever since. This divorce would not steal my children’s mother from them. As I did, an old tradition became one year older - a beautiful tradition that belied our family’s new landscape. Reluctantly, I opened the cabinet above the refrigerator, pulled down the menorah, and put it on the kitchen counter, in the same exact spot where I had the year before, and the years before that. That day, I made a conscious choice to pull myself together, even though I knew it would take every ounce of my strength to do so. But with three young children, that was not a possibility - something I am thankful for now. Memories of our life together were everywhere, and the holidays only amplified my distress because now I would be celebrating them as a single parent. ![]() ![]() What I do remember is my children requesting to light the menorah, their grandmother’s, at a time when I was less than enthusiastic about celebrating Hanukkah. The children and I continued to live in New Jersey my ex-husband had asked for a few items from the house we shared to decorate his new apartment - one he was now sharing with another woman - but his mother’s menorah never came up.Įventually, Hanukkah rolled around 11 blurred months later - so blurred, I barely remember them or how I survived without falling apart completely. The foreign city, located 8,000 miles away from our kids - who were 11, 10, and 6 at the time - was now his home. Leaving what was intended to be temporary housing, my husband planted a figurative flag in Hong Kong by renting an apartment. Our marriage could no longer survive with him living and working in Hong Kong for months at a time. In 2012, after 16 years of marriage, my husband and I separated. And so, every year, as we welcomed Hanukkah into our home, by using my mother-in-law’s menorah, we welcomed my husband’s mother - my children’s grandmother - into our home, too. It took center stage over the menorahs our children made at preschool, the artsy ones we purchased over the years, and the few gifted to us by my mother, two of which we could plug into a wall. The silver-plated menorah, which is pretty but by no means remarkable, became a mainstay in our home. ![]() That included lighting her menorah during Hanukkah - the same one my husband and his sister lit when they were children. As much as we could, we welcomed her and her memory into our family. My husband and I spoke of his mother often, and from the time our children were born, we referred to her as they would have: Grandma Elsa. At lunch afterward, I listened as my husband, his aunt, sister, and brother-in-law told stories from her life - especially how she always gave them good, practical advice, and how much they missed it. For as long as I can remember, I heard about how much she loved seeing Broadway shows, and how she cooked the worst coq au vin and Brussels sprouts (not together, fortunately!) in the world.Įvery year, between Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, we visited her grave. My husband and his family spoke about her so often that I felt like I knew her. But that didn’t stop her from becoming a part of my life and, eventually, the lives of our three children. She died four years before I met my 17-year-old boyfriend, who, seven years later, became my husband. ![]()
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
AuthorWrite something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview. ArchivesCategories |