


I loved my Bubbe.* I was probably around 9-years old when she moved from Traverse City, Michigan, to our hometown, Cleveland, after she broke her leg and couldn’t get around well anymore. And the winters were hard. My mother didn’t like her. My father seemed ambiguous, detached.
Often, I would spend the Sabbath with her, riding my bicycle to her apartment, a straight shot down Warrensville Center Road, about 2 miles from our home. She was always a nervous woman, even had electric shock therapy when she was in hospital for her depression, My siblings and I would wait in the car while they visited her.
On the Sabbath, she would light the candles. I loved it. But because Bubbe was fretful, she would put the candles in the sink, fearful of fire.

Ever since, when I light the Sabbath orChanukah candles, I put them in my sink, in her honor.
I will tonight.

* Bubbe” is the Yiddish word for grandmother.