Each year during Hanukkah when the candles are lit, I slip unobserved into the past, recalling childhood celebrations. Conjuring up my parents as I linger near the glowing candles, the smoky fragrance of melting wax adds another layer to aromas in the kitchen. My mother at the kitchen sink, yellow Playtex gloves on her hardworking never-manicured hands. My father on the floor with me encouraging my fingers to pluck the keys of the piano to sound out a tune, one that he knows, “Embraceable You.”
