Shabbat

She is beautiful. She comes to me draped in fine linens, glowing in candlelight. She is there in the wooden match I hold. She is there behind my closed lids, behind hands held over eyes. She is there in the words I speak softly, the light I gather to me. She is there in the flames.

She is reflected in the delicate curves of the kiddush cup, mirrored wine-dark, rich with the promise of repletion. I see her in bread held aloft, broken and shared. She is the guest of honour at our bountiful table. She is the prayer, the song. She is the thought spoken aloud. She is the silence.

It is almost Friday. I can't wait.