Six hundred and thirty one kaddishes ago my dad passed away. Each day, since we buried him, I wake when it’s dark, retire when it’s dark, and fill the day with kaddishes. It’s a new life now, a new mindset, “When will I say kaddish? What am I doing today? I need to say kaddish.” The repetitive nature of kaddish (the Jewish hymn for mourning)--each day, about seven times a day I say it--has made me obsessive. On a drive from Chicago to Pittsburgh, I was nervous I’d miss it one morning so I stayed overnight in a motel near a synagogue in Toledo, Ohio. I didn’t sleep that night, not for fear of bedbugs, foreignness, or crime, but because I was afraid I’d miss my alarm. At home it’s no different. I’m married to my clock:...

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