On the fifth night of Chanukah, Saskia asked that we light the menorah. We were the only two people around the house. The first four nights had been neglected. I said, sure.
I recited about a quarter of the prayer (that’s a generous estimate, to be honest) as I lit the first candle. I had to remind her blowing the candles out wasn’t allowed. The miracle I’d described moments earlier was clearly lost on her.
Last night, we lit the candles again. Critical mass had been achieved; we were five out of six around the menorah (rehearsal for A Christmas Carol claimed our sixth member—a farcical Paintbox Theatre production, but still).
