Dearest G-d,

For twelve months I passed by that candle, dear G-d, reminding me not to forget.
As if I could.
Each Friday I stood by that candle as I brought in Shabbat.
And I prayed.
Many days I’d rush down the stairwell, onwards I went.
A glance at the candle.
A shiver.
A tear.
And that tiny wick, waving to and fro,
like my broken heart trying to connect.
And that large container of melting wax,
like the hourglass of time that keeps on going.
Like my tough facade, slowly cracking.
But how can I tell you, dear G-d, how much I ache as I glance?
About the pleas I’ve whispered in those moments?
And the “I love you’s” as I said goodnight?
It’s been twelve months since we’ve last spoken.
Twelve months too many.

How can I tell you, if it was You who made those suns set.

I struggle to share with you,
The one energy I should,
about the nights I’ve cried myself to sleep.
And the resulting aches I woke up with.
And the memories I have recalled.
I wasn’t finished making them, dear G-d.
Is this pain really justifiable?
Death really for the good?

What will become now?
I can no longer reach him.
No number to call.
No address to mail.
No email to reach.
No candle to talk to.

I’m scared, dear G-d.
I am from a nation of survivors,
And still I quiver.
The wax has almost melted for the final time in these past twelve months.
Do tell me Dear G-d, if I never had the chance to say goodbye,
How do I say it to his candle?
I don’t want to let go, Dear G-d,
Dear Angel of Mercy,
Of my sweet, comic, Valentine.

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