I dreamt beneath these branches
that you carved our initials in her trunk,
and we sat at her roots, learning
the intricacies of growth
and love.

we took her seeds, held them in our palms
and pushed them into the ground.
my hands touched the tips of your fingers
as we buried
our faith in the soil.

I wait without patience
for this seed to sprout, so I may sit
at the roots of something we created
and teach her to
absorb the sunshine.

Today I woke up as usual and put my clothes on. I ventured to work in a mumbly, sleep-deprived state – it strikes me as odd now, because I have been getting more than enough sleep. When I got to work I pulled a post-it-note off the pad and wrote “Ya Allah…“

A whole dua, from start to finish.

And it rested there for hours amongst the clutter of my day job. I wrote a phone number on the back of my dua.

When the end of the day crawled forward, I whited-out His Name, folded the square in half to make a triangle. The corners weren’t as aligned as I hoped they’d be. I recycled it.

I tend to write prayers on the corners of newspapers and pale yellow post-it notes. I scrawl them on my left palm, type them out into documents, and read them aloud when alone.

Tomorrow I will do the same.

Perhaps the more I write, the more likely my prayers are to be answered.

Our empty lunch plates have been taken away, and my attention is focused on the cold scoops of strawberry-laced vanilla ice cream laid out so temptingly in the glass platter before me. “How would you like to be proposed to?” she asks abruptly. She leans forward, black eyes level with mine, her slice of cake on the table seemingly forgotten.

“I don’t know.” I tell her. She says nothing, only continues looking at me intently. “This is not something I have given much thought to,” I insist, wondering privately from whence this bewilderingly disconnected question has arisen. She props her head upon her palm – cosily – as if she is capable of sitting in that chair indefinitely listening to me concocting silly fantasies, and I am flustered by the sudden attention.

“I – I guess I would like to be proposed to directly,” I blurt out, “and not through my parents like most traditional Muslims seem to do.” “Really?” she asks curiously. “Yes, really.” I slip a tart strawberry into my mouth, my lips puckering as I suck. Perhaps she is waiting for a fuller response, for she watches still.

“I am making this up as I go along,” I finally admit, and her mouth curves upward despite her disappointment. But I do not tell her that as I speak, I can see the uneven horizon in the distance and hear gentle waves of blue lapping at my toes. We have tired of walking, and when he finally turns toward me in askance, he does so with such sincerity and grace that I am moved to tears by his simple gesture. But it is a foolish childlike fantasy, and besides, February is too cold and dreary for such embarrassingly fanciful dreams.

Water sputters from the faucet in slow, stilted plops, and even before stepping foot in the kitchen, I know I will discover Grandma standing solemnly before the sink in that simple flowered dress of hers. I am moved each time I see her thus: thin strands of grey atop a head bent sharply in concentration; shoulders hunched over the near-empty basin; bony forearms resting upon towels she has placed strategically on the countertop to protect against its hard surface; and those hands — spidery purple veins protruding grotesquely through wrinkled, paper-thin skin — those hands moving slowly, oh-so-slowly, as she rubs the soapy sponge over the curve of her soup bowl once more.

She straightens her back when she senses my presence, well-aware by now that I cannot bear the sight of her toiling away at that simple dish for so long. I hover about the kitchen restlessly, consumed with guilt and reluctant to put my glass down because I know she will want to rinse it too.

“Are you finished with that glass?” she asks suddenly. I am surprised she has already noticed. “Yes,” I tell her. She gestures to the countertop beside the sink and I brace myself for the familiar exchange to follow. “Leave it here then,” she says in her lilting English accent. “No, Grandma, please leave the dishes,” I plead, “I should be washing them, not you!” “No, no, it’s just a few, don’t worry,” she insists, “Leave your glass here. Leave it here and go.”

I stand beside her still clutching my glass. She is shorter than me now and much smaller. As she shifts her weight from side to side, my gut clenches and I envision those fragile bones in her body jarring together uncomfortably like the dishes in the plate rack beside her. “You look tired,” I tell her as she continues rinsing the bowl. “Aren’t you tired, Grandma?” She says nothing, simply places the bowl on the rack to dry before picking up her sponge again. Her sense of hearing has diminished over the years, and I speak louder this time. “You should be resting, not washing dishes, Grandma.” “Oh no, I have plenty of time to rest!” she exclaims.

She lifts a spoon as I look on, helpless to stop her short of wresting the utensil from her shaky hands. I feel a tinge of impatience at the slowness of her movement and then I am ashamed. “Let me wash the rest,” I repeat weakly, already knowing her answer but needing to offer nonetheless. There is a moment of awkward silence. “I like to do a little work,” she finally replies. Then the command, cloaked in that disarmingly gentle tone of hers: “Leave your glass and go.”

She is a proud woman, even at eighty-three years of age, and my pained pleadings are an exercise in futility. Defeated, I slide the glass onto the countertop. My eyes light upon an empty soup container by the sink. It is large – so large it can barely fit in the sink – and I hate to think of her labouring over it. “You mustn’t wash this, Grandma,” I tell her, “I’ll take care of it when you’re finished.” “Okay then,” she returns cheerily, “I’m almost finished here anyway.” She continues soaping and washing, eyes trained on the utensil in her hand, and I feel a bit of grudging pride that this woman yet to cede her independence. I wander over to the kitchen table and settle into a chair with the day’s newspaper in hand. And I wait. We have perfected this game, Grandma and I, and I know that when I look up again, the sink will be empty and Grandma will be wiping her hands dry with a solemnity that belies her broken promise.

I distinctly recall the day I chose to play Good Samaritan and donate a bag of blood to some poor soul desperately in need of it. After a substantial wait, I struggled through the long application forms that needed to be filled out, then subjected myself to a nurse’s gruelling questions – screening, it’s called – about my non-existent sexual history and possible visits to suspect parts of the world. And when my name was finally called, I was relieved. I was doing what I had come to do. A noble act to save another being. I lay on the bed like a sacrificial lamb ready to be slaughtered for the sake of my love for humanity.

For some inexplicable reason, the nurse had tremendous difficulty finding my vein. She was poking me all over with a needle that hurt like, well, like a needle should. And she wouldn’t stop. She tried one arm. Jabbed around for a few minutes. No luck. She got me to turn around on the bed so that my other side faced her. Then she took several more thrusts at my left arm. Finally, after a few relentless blood-squirting exercises, she decided the right arm was probably the right choice after all. So I gritted my teeth, grinned politely, and turned around again. But it seemed my right arm wasn’t ready to cooperate. My rebellious veins were hiding, she chattered excitedly. And so she stabbed them into submission – using the needle in a lever-like fashion, she lifted the poor vein for ready piercing.

And now, bag hooked up to the needle, needle stuck in my arm, I was ready to go. It was a sight to behold. Dark red blood – my own – pumping steadily out of me into a bag I couldn’t quite see. A worthy addition to my list of good deeds? I thought so.

It was going so well that I recall feeling slightly impatient at having to lie down for so long. Perhaps if I had brought a book, I thought, or something I could listen to. But no, I hadn’t, and now I was left to count sheep and reflect on the dismal state of the world. I starting thinking about all the wonderful things I could have been doing if I hadn’t acted so nobly when I steadily became aware that I was feeling quite strange. As if I was going to throw up. Cold and clammy unease slithered through my entire body. Something in my head was pounding away. I felt wobbly and lightheaded even though I was completely still. I remember being rather disoriented precisely because I wasn’t quite sure what to make of my body’s ludicrous response to the act of giving.

I started hoping desperately for the thing to end. There were people milling about all around me, and I didn’t want to embarrass myself. That wasn’t part of the exercise, remember. I certainly couldn’t display the contents of my breakfast on the white bed sheets – or worse, on the sterile floors below. My confusion at being so confused forced me to call out to the nurse. “Excuse me, I’m not feeling very well!” She came over. “Is something wrong?” she asked cheerily. “Yeah, I’m not feeling too well. I’m not sure why.”

“Well, how do you feel?” she asked. I told her, but she didn’t seem to understand. “Everything seems fine,” she insisted, checking my arm again, “Do you want to stop giving blood?” I was horrified. After all that work, I’d just give up? After the repeated stabbings, the extensive questioning, she wanted me to simply quit? No, I was going to go through with this. I was going to give blood.

She smiled when she heard. I think she was pleased, but I was too concerned with my own well-being to care. I don’t remember precisely what happened after that exchange, but I know I told her I needed to sit up and she asked if I could wait until it was all over and done with. I nodded weakly and lay still, cursing the constricting tubes and praying for my blood to gush out with greater abandon.

And then the bag was full and the nurse plunked a bandage where the incriminating needle had been. The entire inner part of my arm was a shocking bluish-purplish colour, as if I’d been beaten badly by an abusive boyfriend. The nurse said my blood had simply spilled out of my veins and was now frolicking about cheerily beneath the thin surface of my skin.

She suggested I sit on the bed for a few minutes before she rushed off to stick needles into other healthier blood donors. I did as she’d asked, but by now my eyelids were fluttering about groggily and my entire body felt as limp and weightless as if I were floating about in warm water. “Excuse me!” I called out again. I was somewhat annoyed because I couldn’t quite get up and the nurse didn’t seem to care much about my predicament. “Is there a garbage can anywhere? I think I’m going to throw up!”

Sight and sound had receded somewhat, but she must have turned around and looked at me, because I suddenly heard her yell, “Oh my!” and then she was by my side. “You’re completely white! Lie down, lie down!” Finally, I thought to myself, finally, she takes me seriously. But her plump body was teetering unnaturally before my eyes, and before long I couldn’t see or hear her or anything else anymore…