Rose Milk

Until this year, I’d never seen Handel’s Messiah performed. I suppose this is not shocking, being Jewish and all.

It was really beautiful. I hadn’t ever thought about it being scripture, but yes, it was. But still, it filled the church and drew me in.

The church was lovely. Not too fussy. Warm, nice. And every time the air shifted, the smell of Rose Milk passed by me.

Now, it’s not that I particularly like the smell of Rose Milk. I don’t, actually. But my grandmother, Betsy, used it. And it conjures up such memories. Maybe she was even there with me in that church.

And the music. I could hardly wait for Hallelujah which, incidentally, was the only part of Messiah that I evidently knew.

It didn’t disappoint.

But the best thing about the whole concert was being there with my youngest (now 14 year old) son. What great company.

Me, Max, Handel, and the memory of my grandmother.

Merry Christmas, indeed.

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