December. While my father lay at Rosewood

in the last months of his protracted dying,
I went to synagogue with a friend
for Erev Shabbat during Chanukah.

Rabbi Elisabeth lit the first four candles
of the large menorah on Eitz Chayim’s porch.
The gathered faithful sang Shehecheyanu
in wintry starlight, in the sniffling cold.

I mentioned this to Dad a few days later.

What the hell were you doing at a synagogue?