for this kind of evening…

“Choose,” Grandfather would say, smiling slyly, “morning or evening?”
“I’ll let you choose first,” Grandmother would answer, and they would both laugh sweetly.

I’ve heard this little exchange many times—their conversation about the time of day “when it will be time to die.”
Do you know what they chose?
Both chose morning.

Because choosing evening would mean the other would have to live the whole day without the first.
And that day would be sad.

I stand in the place where, once a year, thousands of little candles flicker for those who have left, but are not forgotten.
With my eyes, I follow my Do, trying determinedly to cover the candles we brought.
I hear a tiny flame snapping.

With my gaze, I trace the names of my grandparents, carved into the stone.

But.
My thoughts wander across the expanse of a cloudy sky.
And.
I see Grandfather in his deep cherry-colored sweater, checking the orchard to see if the autumn apples are fully ripe.
And Grandmother, tying her checked scarf and pulling a freshly baked “babka” from the oven.

Before my eyes appear their faces, lined from so much life, etched with laughter and care.
Hands worn from work.
And.
Eyes.

From those eyes, always, alongside great concern and love, shone good humor and the desire to play a prank, to share a joke from the newspaper, to sing a little song… or in any way revive a sometimes dimmed mood.

I stand by the grave.
And beside the sadness that they have gone,
lives the joy that they remain.
In memory.
Not sick or tired.
But.
Smiling. And playing little tricks.

Every year, in the glow of thousands of candles, they visit us with warm memories.
Smiling down at us from above.
For those who have left.
But not forgotten.
For those who loved.
And are still loved.

V.