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