Tonight, on the third night of Chanukah,
while my partner thanked my mom for his presents
and I wrapped up more to send home to her,
the doorbell rang
and it was a group
of carolers.
Turned on the porch light
Held the dog back by the collar
Listened to a dozen grown-ups
and three or four kids
wish me a merry Christmas
and a happy new year.
Plastered on my "I'm not Jewish" smile,
opened the screen door,
slipped past the dog and onto the porch
to add my voice to the chorus,
my mezuzah silently marking the doorframe
that I leaned against while singing about Jesus.
"Wow, thank you so much," I said.
"Thanks for being home!" they said.
"So many people aren't. Merry Christmas!"
Over and over they said it.
"Happy Holidays!" I replied weakly.
"Merry Christmas!" they said.
Back inside, I wonder
which menorah to light tonight:
the one from Mira Kimmelman,
my aging Hebrew school teacher with
dark gray numbers tattooed on her arm?
Or the one from the Jewish ghetto in Rome?
Why do I always think of it later --
what I should have said?
I know you are doing this to be generous
but you are taking something from me.
You are taking away my miracle days.
I do not worship your god.
I wonder if those caroling kids
ever had a stranger show up on their doorstep
singing songs about someone else's god,
and I wonder how much damage I've done
by not telling them what they've taken from me.
There is no one else to tell them.
I curse myself for saying nothing
and begin to boil inside, wondering
how old I'll be
when December stops making me feel like a silenced child?
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