Anya Groner Tacos with Irene Channukah is over. Still, on her dresser, the Menorah's plugged in. "Lunchtime," I shout when I kiss her damp face. At La Michoacana, the café is dim. Her chair is too hard, and the Mariachi's not music. It's noise. I say, "chicken or beef?" and she closes her eyes. She eats with her hands whatever I order and draws her blunt knife across the cloth napkin. When at last the bill comes, she rummages her purse and hands me a postcard I sent her last May. On the drive back to Rosewood, she announces she's moving. "To the beach," she begins, and I tell her, congrats, but don't ask which ocean. "Mother?" she says and points at us both. At naptime, I sing, "Goodnight Irene." She blows on her candles. The bright bulbs stay on.