My knuckles crack open in the cold.
All eight candles are lit along with the presiding shamash; the light they give is defiant and cheerful.
A slender journal in Hebrew, and the story of a girl who lived decades ago and died young. She left a deep impression on her teacher, who wrote about her elevated spirit and discerning mind; this teacher wanted to preserve her writing and keep her memory alive. In her black and white photo she looks serious and severely lovely.
The project drifts off course and onto some rocks. It groans, tilts, and waits in weary silence for intervention.
Their eyes appear on the screen as two blank white circles on a black square. The circles squeeze to nothing and spring to full circumference; they waver and blur and shift from side to side. They seem to belong to a cartoon character blinking out of a dark room.
My front door won't admit me, and at first I'm not sure why.
Snow drifts down in the late afternoon. It's the best time of day for it, knowing that there are warm places waiting for me at the end of the day's work.