The first night of Ramadan is cold. We shuffle into the mosque, slightly late as always. But we don’t miss much, everyone else is just as tardy. Inside, we shed our shoes, our sweaters, our egos; check them all at the door. The carpet is soft and plush under my black striped socks that I took from my brother’s drawer (not a very Ramadan thing to do, I agree). The Imam begins to introduce the two men that will alternately lead us in prayer, he sounds bearded and jovial. Later, he’ll take the mic again because he “forgot to translate what I just said because I was too excited.” He translates the words into Somalian and I notice that it has many Arabic-sounding words.

I see scattered chairs in the row ahead of me for women too old, too creaky-kneed to prostrate. Their hijabs flowing down til their knees, with each stride, there are hints and flashes of bright swirly patterns on their skirts under their abayas. We connect feet. Some are naked toes, some clothed and warm. And I wonder that their sockless feet don’t get cold. The Imam recites verses from the second chapter, weaving his voice in and out of its meanings, a myriad of tones. I can imagine painting the lines in his voice.

My face is on the ground, the striped green carpet beneath my eyes, forehead, nose. The women are muttering unintelligible words in Arabic, raising their hands and hearts, their hijabs bunching up at the sleeves. It’s warm in here and there is a faint woody smell of incense from their homes.

And suddenly we are done and I am crossing my legs on the carpet, thinking I should put my sweater on, and my shoes. For some reason, I also re-check my ego. The women smile, mull about chatting in foreign tongues near the exit, waiting for husbands, sons, brothers. It is cold outside as we make our way to the car.