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Summary
Cameron was out that evening, probably lording his mathematical prowess over the other freshmen, so Knox sat by himself in their room. Alone. More than ever, he understood the state of being lonesome - of being other. His chest ached with homesickness. He missed his father’s rumbling laugh, and his Baba’s singing voice when she prayed, and his mother’s sumac chicken, and her stuffed grape leaves, and the way the candlelight from the Menorah made his living room glow golden, late at night.
It was the first day of Chanukah, 1957, and Knox whispered the candle prayers to himself and an empty bedroom, and held the candle in his hand until it was warm enough for him to pretend that it was burning.
Series
- Part 1 of tell me we'll never get used to it