Our brass menorah

Hundreds of fingers have tried to clean our brass menorah
Old wizened ones, covered in burns from oven racks and cuts from vegetable peelers
Smelling like my grandmothers' perfume 
Young and strong, unscarred except for the bruises and bumps of a fourth-grade summer
Our brass menorah has been cleaned by old men who swore they knew what they were doing, apprehensive sisters-in-law, uncles with video tutorials and daughters with friends' tricks
It has known salt and lemon, vinegar, baking soda, a 1950s garage freezer, a dollar store lighter, my cousin's penknife, and a thousand perpetually anxious fingernails
I have seen cuts from the base of that menorah, blisters from its hot metal, suctioned kisses from its still-smoky cups
It has never shone, I think
Our brass menorah was made worn
Made twisted like we are, 4 generations of scoliosis and spondylolisthesis and sciatica still strong, many more to come
Made bent like we are, a beautiful sea of prescriptions in all different shapes and colors washing up on our countertops
Made tired like we are, the designer eyebags we each wear, and a propensity for liking Earl Grey tea and large novels late at night
Our menorah was not made to be cleaned and polished
Tears, rainbows of wax bloom down its side, growing thicker and deeper each year
Too soft for a knife and too hard for a washcloth, just like we are
It has stood rigid as generations of obsessive-compulsive Bernsteins have studied it instead of studying their schoolwork or their marriages
And still it is dirty, wearing its worn with pride
Holding each whisper of wax like the songs we never produced, the books we never published, the dances we never performed
Thousands
Millions of wishes and hands and tears have tried to clean our brass menorah

ZoeBee

VT

19 years old

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