i lit a yahrzeit candle for you this week and it exploded
Rana Bickel
shattering glass all over the living room floor. jagged edges surrounding it and wax pooling on
the table. the flame kept burning though. it was supposed to be a 24-hour candle and i lit it
around 8 pm. that dancing flame so alive. but there i was at 1 in the morning the next day
realizing i had to blow it out. I didn't want to but i also didn't want to cry for another 3 hours and
go to sleep puffy-eyed dehydrated with a headache again and i also don't want you to be dead.
when i say i miss you i mean i wish i could remember even one instant we spent together. like
you rolling on the floor trying to move your body like a baby for one whole day. following
18-month-old me and my sister crawling around. exhausted by dinner you gave up laughing on
the floor. the most devastating story my mother tells is about asking you to leave one week after
we were born because you had a cold. of course you had to leave we were newborns and 6 weeks
preemie and you were sick but fuck who was to know how little time we had together. turns out
you were the precious one. i could have been sick for a week just for you to hold me again. i
would be sick now for a month a year whatever you ask of me. of course i know you would
never ask that. you would want me to be settled in this body. like when my uncle told you he
didn’t believe in your body work method and you instructed him to lie down and lightly taped
him in specific spots so when he tried to get up half his body was completely relaxed but the
other half was tense and he had to beg you to even it out. you with that glimmer in your eye. or
when you tied my cousin's shoes under his desk while he studied with your toes! in the library
and when he got up and tripped you laughed not cruel but joyful. the way you did at your uptight
synagogue all those other ladies in suits and you wearing a scarf as a dress and closing your eyes
hands in the air swaying to the music. at least when your body turned on you it was quick, you
were only sick for 6 weeks. too early, like us.
anyways i swept up the glass then davened maariv. stretching a bit as i did. getting comfortable
in my body, a task for every day i’m given on this earth. i pray. then i blow the candle out. make
a wish
Rana Bickel (she/they) is a queer Jewish poet from Maryland residing in Chicago. Their work has appeared in Stone of Madness Press, Thimble Literary Magazine, and the Jewish Literary Journal. She loves books, community, and rainstorms.