We sit back in our chairs,
while the wax slowly melts
as the candles burn down.
In the notebook, I add words in black lettering
against the blue water of my river drawing.
Shabbat,
candles,
challah,
family.
My father and grandfather talk about the Giants.
The sounds of their voices flow like the water
in my drawing around marsh reeds and giant boulders.
It’s when I press the tip of the pencil
to the edge of the letter b
to write baseball
that the table
suddenly
jerks
back and forth,
snaps the tip of my pencil,
and then we hear the shaking
of the dishes in the cabinets,
like they might all break at once.
Then for a moment it’s still,
and we breathe, but the ground
is still moving in a low rumble.
First, far away, and then closer
and closer like ocean waves
crashing beneath the earth.
All of our earthquake drills have taught us what to do,
so I get under the table as quick as I can.
The overhead light swings.
My father gets under with me,
and we see the candles in their silver holders
tilting back and forth.
My grandfather reaches them just before they fall,
then climbs underneath the table, too.
By the time he gets there, everything is still,
and we hear the sounds of people outside,
loud voices calling out for each other.
Wait.
My grandfather
holds both of our hands.
Close your eyes.
I put a hand on the floor
as if I might feel the earth move.
He says a prayer,
and my father looks straight at him.
The two candles roll beneath the table,
turn us amber in their dull glow.
My father quickly snuffs them out.