Every time I blink: a new synagogue. In each there is a man in robes speaking darkly. The congregants respond in Yiddish or Russian or Polish or French. Then it’s the same prayer, the congregants chant the Kaddish. Each grief-filled syllable lifts up from the dirt pointing heavenward and says nothing about death. I blink and there is a wailing coming from outside the building. Blink and a brick opens the stained glass. And then another brick. And then the night pours in.
