Mid-December, I get an email from The Lawyer. It’s a link to a book about the significance of the written word to Jews throughout history, exactly the kind of nerdy thing my father and I can be found reading and discussing via skype. The Lawyer suggests that this might make a good Hanukah gift for my father.
I’m pretty sure he’s not going to bill me for this email, sent at 11:26 pm on a Saturday night.
I don’t think this is the time to explain to him that I’m only half-Jewish, and the wrong half at that, something my father has recently discussed at great length with his rabbi, and I imagine will continue to discuss because I don’t think either of them has moved much from their original opinions on the matter.
My father’s case would presumably not be bolstered by the fact that we exchange Christmas gifts, anyway. And although he lights candles each year on his Menorah, I didn’t manage to accomplish even that much this past Hanukah – after failing to find the right kind of candles at three different supermarkets, I gave up.
I can, and do, critique every bagel I eat, often at great length. I’m great with guilt, too.
That must count for something.
I wonder about the fact that every time I’ve spoken with The Lawyer recently, he inquires about my father. He hasn’t asked for my dad’s email address.
I wonder if that’s some sort of conflict of interest.
I finally settle on a reply email that simply thanks him for the information, and wishes him happy holidays. I do mention that I’m having a lovely holiday season, particularly as a lot of people have been taking me out for post-divorce celebratory drinks.
I receive no reply.
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