I sensed from my mother's tone on the phone that something was terribly wrong.
"You need to come home. Your grandmother is not well and it is serious."
I was on the first flight back home; I could not eat nor sleep. I was a nervous wreck. Praying and calling my mother every thirty minutes. "Is she fine?" I would ask, to which she would answer in the most broken down voice: "yes, she is the same". I prayed that I would get the chance to see her, touch her, and tell her many things I needed her to know.
…I never made it in time.
The days which followed were difficult; they still are. I think back now and realize that I must have somehow known that something was not right. That whenever I would repeat the sentence: "I want to come home" to my mother, I somehow already 'knew' within me that my grandmother was not fine.
& I find myself missing so much..
Holding her hands – the palms of her hands were cotton-like; the softest hands I have ever held.
Braiding her hair
Being always on the lookout for perfumes which she would like – something I continue to do until this day and it takes me a few minutes to realize that there is no need to do that anymore…
Being the only person I would go to when I would be upset. I would not talk; I would just sit near her. That was comforting enough.
Her face..
Her voice..
Her "fedaitch"
Missing her,
hurts.
اللهم إرحم من إشتاقت لهم أرواحنا وهم تحت التراب