Come, I will sing you a song of redemption,
your ebony black hair will sway with the tune
and the sad memories will fall off
like dandruff
and settle on your slender shoulders, but for a while,
we will indulge in merriment anyway.

I shall depart when gray matter
once again reassembles,
new pieces to fit the old jigsaw puzzle
so you will never recognize,
and it hits you like a cold splash of water in your face when you do
that life is everlasting,
resurfaces in a myriad of possibilities,
is a thin veil that shifts
ever so slightly from one frame into the next
only to begin anew when the camera stops rolling.

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 feel liquid 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.