Christmas Tree longs for Menorah, but knows it will never work.
Tree loves Menorah's sleek elegance, the simple beauty of nine yellow flames. Nothing tacky or overdone, even when the children insist on using a different color candle for every holder.
Christmas Tree, on the other hand, is subject to so many indignities. Multicolored lights, multicolored lights that blink, multicolored lights that chase. The assortment of ornaments that becomes more and more mismatched with every new media event: Snoopy, Disney Princesses, Harry Potter. The popcorn strings that are becoming so ragged, but are never discarded because the children of the previous generation made them. And most insulting of all, the year the tasteful silver star at the top was replaced by a stuffed green Grinch (in Santy Claus hat and coat, oh, yes, indeed).
Tree feels like a painted, aging whore.
While Menorah's age only enhances the attraction. The rich layering of wax drops, that refined translucent strata. A mosaic.
It is the last day of the Festival of Lights. Menorah will go back into storage soon. Either Tree says something now, or the opportunity is lost for yet another year.
Tree concentrates. Menorah is so clever, so rooted in somber history; surely Menorah knows Morse code? Tree concentrates as hard as possible, and soon the pattern of Tree's blinking lights have changed: Short short. Short long short short. Long long long...
Has Menorah seen it? The I love you, all but shrieked across the distance?
Is it Tree's imagination, or...has Menorah's shamos grown...a little straighter, a little...taller?
There's a reason the household tries to keep open flame away from Christmas Tree.
Some things just need protection.