The 24th of Kislev was about to end, dusk was falling I recognized your face from more than four cubits away, six feet You wore blue and I wore green We sat down on a white bench near the playground of your past One by one the children left stars came out and darkness settled in You said the words I needed you to say Your arms around me beneath your light down coat, your heart that will love someone else...

As a child, I spent the last week of December under gray skies, the old year like landscape fading out. Days of new toys and boredom, a scent of drying pine needles and cold wax the sadness of soon-to-be abandoned trees. For a few more hours, they are in sync, Kislev and December -- sun and moon made love during the darkest time. Tonight, by the first silver sliver, they drift apart again, the distance growing with each remaining candle lit....

I watch the candles and sing again the tunes you taught me. I still see you kindle lights, standing next to me in a white shirt, I still feel my head on your chest in a movie theater on 13th Street, feel yours on my shoulder, on a bench in Brighton Beach, snow falling outside, salt in your hair. I still sing the tunes that almost went away with you. I won’t let the lights go out, I promised.  I didn’t...