Letters from Ummi

You already know the sentence. The one you would say if the phone rang at the wrong hour. You have practiced it in the car, at 2 a.m., at the sink.

The person it belongs to is still here.

Do not save it for a less tired, less ashamed version of you. That version never arrives. There is only this week, or another year. A grave can receive a love like that, but it cannot say it back. Only the living can say it back.

It is almost never dramatic. It is a call that is awkward for ten seconds. One real question, and staying for the answer. The photo you almost sent, sent anyway. And the small sentences that scare you: I am sorry. I miss you. I noticed. I am proud of you.

If the silence is old, break it badly. Half a sentence through it is better than a perfect eulogy. You do not owe them a speech. You owe them a start. If they take it badly, that part is between them and Allah. Your half is the reaching.

Then say their name to Allah that night. The Prophet, peace be upon him, taught that keeping your ties of kinship widens provision and lengthens life. Your mercy and theirs are tied together.

May Allah keep them long enough, and you soft enough, to say it all.

If you want one written for a person you name, write to me at [email protected].

From Ummi