The ventilator tricks your body into remaining alive. Some days your eyes open, others they do not. Some days you can write again. Others you cannot. You take my offered hand, squeeze my palm and weave your fingers in and out of mine.
Memory is a kind of loom.
For you and for God. God, whom you have talked to each and every Shabbat, at sunset, eyes closed gently. You lit the candles, sheltered them with your hands and whispered once the blessing though your fingers. Your arms circled slowly to shepherd their light, spread it among us and across time. Head bowed and eyes covered by your fingers, once more the blessing, this time your throat still and just your lips reciting.