I am living, yet I cannot say the Kaddish. I had thought I might. But instead of devoting myself to 11 months of recitation, I prefer to write a love story. I will replace continuous prayer with continuous devotion. I will replace love of God with my love for her. I am not reinventing a religion, it is just that religion holds no place for me. Has no heart that beats with the same fervor. It does not understand me. Nor will I attempt to fit myself into a mold, when my grief is so shapeless. It spills over everything. It is solid and liquid and invisible. All at the same time.
Allen gave his Kaddish to Naomi. Mine is for Ruth. I don't think the Kaddish is for the living. I don't think the black button with its torn ribbon is an adequate representation of the condition of my heart. Each day reminds me of what I have lost. Soon, one month will become two. And at the end of 11 months, will it stop? The incantation will cease. The mourners will return to their lives. The scents will fade. Another round of Kaddish will begin for those with the voice and the inclination.
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