Before the city of Holon would put on the Yom Kippur cloak,

my mother would arrange large yahrzeit candles in the kitchen sink.

One candle for Yanke'le.

A second candle for Bron'ka.

A third candle for Yitzhakel.

A fourth candle for close and distant relatives of her mother and father,

whose names she never knew or forgot.

A fifth candle for Yankel.

A sixth candle for Hannah.

A seventh candle for Yosa'le.

An eighth candle for Malka'le.

A ninth candle for Haim-Binyumin.

A tenth candle for Pesia Neuman.

An eleventh candle for close and distant relatives of David's mother and father

whose names she never knew or forgot.

She would also light additional candles

in memory of all the fallen soldiers

in Israel's wars,

and another, extra large candle,

in memory of all those who perished in the Holocaust,

may they rest in peace wherever they lie,

and pray that our lives be filled with health and peace.

By the time she was done, the sink was ablaze, with light and heat bursting forth in

flickering flames.

As night fell, this magical sight sank into the depths of the sink. Against the backdrop

of the white tiles and white worktop, the transparent candles became invisible, as pale

as the dead. Upon our return from Kol Nidrei prayer, however, when the kitchen was

shrouded in darkness, the sink would fill with light as powerful as the flame of the

bush, which burned with fire but was not consumed before Moses's very eyes.