Another Target Meltdown

I know I am feeling better than before because today was a prime day for another Target meltdown like the one this summer. Tomorrow evening is the first night of Hanukkah. Last Hanukkah I lit the first candle on the first night at the house of my Israeli cousin, Yaron. Yaron is 6 foot 10 and until about a year ago had hair that sprouted in crazy waves off of his head and down his back. It added another inch or two at least. His messy beard wasn't long enough to cover the chest hair that peaked out from his shirt that was always open to the third button down. In short, Yaron looked like an enormous Deadhead. Which he isn't. In the last year, after his wife gave birth to their second son, he tried to cut his hair. He walked into two different salons and no one would touch his hair. They didn't even know where to start with hair like that. So he started pulling it back into a tight braid. He shaved his beard and buttoned up his shirt.

From the first time I met Yaron, until the last family party I attended, Yaron was my Israeli big brother. There are a few people in my life who, no matter how little we know each other, or how rarely we see each other, I just love them- really love them and can feel they really love me. Even while we are still searching for common ground, or topics of conversation, our souls are already communicating. Yaron was like that for me. It was a rare connection for me, and I think just as rare, or more so, for him. I loved having someone who felt like a brother when I was far from my blood family.

Ever since Yaron's eldest son, Tuval, was born, Yaron and his wife, Shir, have hosted all the family for the first night of Hannukah. All the family is a lot of family, including all of Shir's family- immediate and extended and all of Yaron's family- immediate and extended. So much family means a gaggle of kids under the age of 10. All of the children made and brought their own menorahs (which are really called Hannukiahs). The kids would gather around the coffee table and place their candle in their Hannukiah and, here is the part where you know you are not in America, all the little kids would get to light their own candles. Ever seen a three year old light a candle? If not, you don't know what fear is. After the candles were lit came the singing. Song after song resonated off the walls, celebrating the Maccabean victory, the miracle of the oil in the temple, the light in the darkness. Last year, Tuval treated us to a song and dance about being a dreidle.

Then came the food. Platters piled with potato pancakes and sweet potato pancakes, mountains of salad, and for dessert, heaps of donuts. It is after all, a holiday that celebrates oil. We would pile our plates high while the kids tore open presents, the older generation kept bursting into song, and chaos reigned. This scene is some people's nightmare, but I love it. I love the chaos. I loved being at the house of my older brother and being surrounded by family. I wanted my kids to grow up knowing their cousins' cousins. I wanted to take them with their cousins to the synagogue on the High Holidays. I wanted to watch the candles on a dozen different channukiahs come to life simultaneously year after year.

Sometimes, when I wonder why I stayed so long in a marriage that clearly wasn't working, I remind myself of this. This family, these evenings, they were the hardest thing in the world to lose. This future me that I built for seven years, she ceased to exist without my marriage. The loss, while no longer devastating, still saddens me. So today, when I went to Target to look for a Channnukiah and some candles, and found not a single Channukah related item- no Star of David, no dreidle, no candles, no mention of the holiday anywhere, I felt the enormity of the distance between where I was a year ago and where I am now. I felt the third of the world that now lies between me and my older Israeli brother, and I almost cried.

It's the almost that is different. Six months ago, I would have cried. I would have had to leave the store. Now, I just acknowledge the distance, the sadness, the absence of the deep voice, loud laugh, and huge hug of my big Israeli brother. In spite of this, I know that I am better off now. Love alone isn't enough to hold together a marriage, even when the love is big enough to include all the cousins' cousins.