6 December 2010. The sixth night. Turns and wrappings, dark-stained leather, parchment and opaque black ink, written with square-edged pen in tiny strokes, minute flourishes--the crowns--rising above, like prayers, or whisps, from an untrimmed beard--the Kurdish brow, Metropolitan, all rough and raggled, wandering above deep-set eyes...
Not quite memories, more stories. One's own, or gathered--Brooklyn, even... "The Gemara brings down a machloches about whether the correct brachah over lentils is she'ha-kol or mezonos..." uttered by blank-faced cartoon characters in a current YouTube (see under Vort)--but where can one go with this? A nod, a smile, an inner sense of...
The candles, one by one...
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