I am committed to having the menorah on full display until Chanukah is truly over. Not the eighth night — more like the middle of the ninth day. Only then does it feel complete.
By that point, I’m always grateful to my past self for remembering to put a plastic tablecloth on top of my nice one. A small, practical decision that proves itself every year. Because no matter how careful we are (and we’re not ever particularly careful), oil stains and wax drippings are inevitable.
The gold coins I scattered down the center of the table — meant for the “vibe”— are now empty of their chocolate. Their gold foil is littered liberally around. Half-burnt candles, pressed into service to light a shamash or soften the base of another candle so it would fit in just right, did their jobs well — and were promptly discarded. (Sorry, nice candles. We appreciate you.). The table tells the whole story without trying.
As I finally begin to clean it all up, I take inventory.
The one night we had all the kids home.
The families we hosted, coats piled everywhere. The Shabbat where we taught our company mahjong and spent hours after the candles were lit and the meal was over playing.
The parties we went to — some loud, some quieter.
Even the moments that blended work into celebration, without either one feeling heavy.
It was a good holiday. Joyous and relaxed. The right balance of fun, family, and responsibility — a balance that’s hard to strike and easy to notice only once it’s passed.
On the last night, we came home late. We’d been out at friends, hadn’t lit the candles yet. When we got home — cold, bellies full, happy — we lit our final candles. No rush. No audience.
With four of the kids home, we sat down together and read our final story in The Power of Light by Isaac Bashevis Singer. And then we just stayed there for a while. Not doing much. Not trying to make it meaningful. Just existing together.
I knew that as soon as Chanukah ended, our kids would be packing up and were heading out. Bags by the door. Schedules returning. But somehow, I found myself with these few extra minutes on the last night in my favorite place, with my favorite people. An unexpected moment — one I appreciated all the more because I hadn’t planned for it.
The house begins its reset slowly. Leftovers get sorted (the fridge stayed very, very full all week). The table gets cleared. The foil goes in the trash.
I pause, as I always do, over the menorahs. I wonder — again — about the best way to remove wax drippings (I’m open to all suggestions). I chip at them a bit. I consider hot water. I weigh how long I’ll work at it before deciding it’s authentic and putting them away as they are, to be dealt with next year.
There’s a quiet pressure, this time of year, to move on quickly. To clean, clear, organize, reset. To make January feel efficient. But I don’t rush this stage.
I like letting the evidence stick around just a little longer.
As a reminder of good times.
Of good moments.
Of a house that was well used.