In my mind, last winter never happened. I have no memory of snow, of the hard and frozen ground, of salt sprinkled on the front steps, or of long stalagmites of ice hanging from the gutters. However hard I try, I remember nothing. I am like a woman whose limb suddenly becomes paralyzed, who tries over and over to lift it, and is disappointed, again and again, when it does not move. The only thing I remember is a candle.
My son, Mendel Goldbloom, a 24-year-old Marine, was killed in 2019, on Simchas Torah. For the entire year after his death, I was struck by the way his yahrtzeit candle flickered and changed color after midnight. I took videos as the color changed from a calm pale yellow to an alarming dancing red. I talked about it with my children and my shrink. It felt as if Mendel was trying to contact me, because it happened in my workspace, after everyone else was asleep, when only I was up and writing. I spoke to the candle as if Mendel was standing in front of me. And though I wondered if maybe I was crazy, I also wondered if this was real. A sign of life after death.