Chapter 25 #2
Eid prayer is a joyous occasion. Homemade sweets are passed around, chocolate-stuffed dates, crumbly pistachio-filled mooncakes, and fancy chocolate in golden wrappers. Children are usually given big baskets of sweets they shyly offer to people in the mosque.
I sit in a corner of the mosque, watching my community greet one another, congratulate each other on another Ramadan passing with blessings, and catch up on news.
It’s sort of peaceful, watching from where I’m sitting.
I spot Jamie after the prayer, standing outside the mosque, hands in his pockets.
He’s chosen all the colors of spring in a white sweater with a popped robin-blue collar, a blue tie that matches his wide blue corduroy pants, and a black funnel-neck coat.
I’ve never seen him dressed this smartly.
Even his hair is styled, like he woke up early to make the stray curls dangling by his eyes look so effortless.
It’s almost entirely black now, and it feels like I’m seeing him for the first time.
He raises a hand to run through his hair before stopping himself.
I bite back a smile. Definitely woke up early.
He looks around at the crowds emerging from the mosque, clearly looking for me, and it makes me feel giddy. When he spots me, his face shines like the sun.
“Hey,” he says when I’m nearby. His eyes sweep over me. “You look… you look…”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, stumbling on unspoken words.
“Thank you,” I say, putting him out of his misery. “So do you.”
“I do indeed look.” He grins. “Come on.”
“Where?” I follow him.
“Breakfast,” he simply says.
We stop by a café that has florals all over the walls and rustic chairs. A friendly barista takes our order of bagels and coffee before giving me a punch card.
“You’re not paying today.” He swipes his phone over the cardless machine before I present my cash to the barista.
My cheeks heat up, and I catch the barista’s eyes; she gives me a wink.
“I’m not comfortable with that,” I say quietly to him when she moves away to prepare our order.
“I’m not comfortable with you paying.” He stares firmly back. “I didn’t know if you were doing something with your dad, and I asked you last minute. So I planned the whole thing.”
I laugh. “What?”
“Yeah. This is my first Eid, and I want it to be special. With you. So I made the plans, therefore, I handle the finances. Next time you plan something.” He accepts the hazelnut latte the barista places on the counter.
I chew on my tongue.
He peers intently at me. “All right?”
“I’m not—”
“A charity. I know. You really think I see you like that?” His voice is serious, worried.
I shake my head. “No.”
His shoulders relax. “Take your coffee.”
I pick my paper cup up, and the giddiness spins in my head. It’s a tentative joy, like I’m not sure if I’m allowed to be happy. But it’s so hard to be worried in the warmth of this café with a coffee and a bagel in my hands. I chose a coffee flavor I’ve never had before. A toffee-nut crunch.
“What do you have planned for today?” I ask. “Do you wanna sit or go somewhere?”
He turns toward me. There’s a new type of nervousness in his expression. Hesitation. “I—I want to pay my respects.”
I blink, the heat leaking from the cup sleeve, marking me, but I don’t put it down.
Mama.
“I remember you said the people who passed away can hear us.” He stares at the floor. “And I know this might be too forward of me, but if you’d like, we can visit her and say a little prayer. If it’s too much, we don’t have to.”
My breath hitches. The last time I visited Mama’s grave was last Eid, Eid al-Adha. She’s buried so far away because there are almost no Muslim graveyards in New York City.
I clear my throat. “She’s… she’s in Washington Memorial Park in Long Island.”
“We can go. Is this something you’d want to do?”
I swallow hard and nod.
His eyes crease. “We don’t have to—I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”
I shake my head. “No. Thank you for asking. But it’s going to take us more than two hours to get there and multiple connections. I’m fine with it because Braxton is on the other side of the world, but—”
“We’re taking a taxi,” Jamie interrupts, frowning.
“But it’s much more…” My voice trails away, and my grip tightens around the paper cup. I don’t want to discuss cheap and expensive things with Jamie.
“Faster. That’s true,” he finishes for me, and nods at the door. “Come on. Let’s go.”
He hails a cab within record time and opens the door to let me get in first. He sits in the back with me with the middle seat acting as a buffer between us. The driver asks us where to, and Jamie tells him.
Taxis were considered something of a luxury in my household. It was always the subway or walking if Baba wasn’t there with the car. Even when Mama was really sick and had to visit the hospital, she took the subway.
“Okay?” Jamie asks me, and I give him an appreciative smile.
His own smile becomes something I can’t quite name. We don’t talk the entire way there, and the closer we get to the graveyard, the more jittery I feel. The coffee tastes too sweet, and the bagel sits heavily in my stomach.
“Hey,” Jamie whispers when we’re twenty minutes away. His voice is strange in this small, enclosed cab. Like he’s speaking through a vacuum. “It’s going to be okay.”
I nod, my mouth dry.
The taxi drops us off at the entrance. This part of Long Island is so different from New York City, with endless thickets of trees every which way, and I can see the gravestones after the sign welcoming visitors.
Jamie stands beside me, pulling his coat tighter around him.
Even though it’s noon with the sun out, there’s a little chill in the air. I hope Mama isn’t cold in her grave. I hope it’s a piece of heaven on earth, holding her in a warm embrace.
“Should we go in?” he asks.
I rub my nose and walk inside.
Mama died when spring began to wake up. A cruel twist of fate that when everything was coming to life, she was gone.
Her funeral was small, attended by close friends on a particularly sunny day, and I remember the smell of roses as clearly as if I’m smelling them right now.
They permeated the air, painting it red and white.
When they put her into the ground, I couldn’t stop thinking of how the soil smelled like it was infused with flowers. A blessing like the earth knew her.
And now it’s almost two years, and the soil is once again alive after winter’s slumber. And yet, I feel numb. So do my feet. I look down to see that the color has been leeched from them. It spreads into the ground, making it all colorless.
“Jamie,” I say in a raw voice, but he doesn’t answer.
I look around to see he’s not beside me but has walked over to where reception is.
A small floral stall stands there, an old man sitting by it wrapped in a huge, fluffy blanket.
Jamie picks the largest bouquet, a mix of blue hydrangeas and white calla lilies.
He jogs back to me, wearing a wide, shy smile. “Okay, I’m ready.”
There’s an ache in my heart, but when I look down at my feet, I see the color has returned.
I know exactly where she is, even though I’ve been here only three times. I wish I could come as much as I want, but she’s so far away.
“Baba had to pay about ten thousand dollars for her to be buried here,” I say quietly, and Jamie comes closer to listen. “There aren’t any plots for Muslims in the city, so it’s either here or Jersey.”
“You can’t bury your mom in Jersey,” he says, and I smile.
“We liked it here.” I look up at the gray-blue sky. “Open field. Close to the ocean in a way. Not landlocked like the one in Jersey.”
We reach the Muslim section of the cemetery, where an Arabic sign reads:
“It means ‘Heaven’s Door,’” I tell Jamie, and he nods.
Mama isn’t far away, and I feel like I’m retracing my steps from her funeral.
I can see myself, dried tears on my cheeks, listening to Amal hiccuping, seeing Baba and the other men from the mosque holding her coffin up, and the smell of flowers everywhere.
Seeing the colors slowly fade away, getting lighter and lighter.
“Salam alaykum, Mama,” I whisper when we finally reach her.
Her headstone reads:
TO ALLAH WE BELONG, AND TO HIM WE RETURN
ZAINA ALQUDSI
BORN 15TH OF NOVEMBER
DIED 7TH OF APRIL
I raise my hands in prayer, reciting the Fatiha under my breath, and Jamie follows suit, tucking the bouquet under his arm.
Mama, I’m here, I think. Can you hear me? Can you feel me?
I miss you so much. I miss you in moments I never thought I’d miss you in.
I knew I’d miss you in the big moments. In the morning when I wake up. When I draw something particularly amazing. When there’s something I want to tell you.
But I miss you when the saltshaker is empty. I miss you when I cook your recipes. I miss you when I see a leaf. I miss you in my bones. I miss you in all the conversations we’ll never have.
I’m okay. I might look shaken up to you, but I’m okay. Your aunt left you a blessing I found, and it’s changed my life. The colors listen to me, and I can see them. Everything I paint is all over New York.
Amal is okay too. I don’t know if she told you, but she’s pregnant. You have a grandchild.
And I want to leave for San Francisco. I never told you that. But I want to leave. I have to. I’m sorry. Forgive me for leaving you.
Tears drip down my cheeks and nose, and I sink to the ground, hugging my knees.
Jamie carefully places the bouquet by her gravestone and crouches beside me.
I sniff, wiping a hand across my nose. “During Eid in Syria, we visit family members who passed away. Thank you for suggesting coming here.” I place a hand on the soil, digging my fingers into its rigidness but barely scraping the surface.
I can’t smell the flowers. Not even the ones Jamie bought.
I’m desperate to smell anything besides the icy air.
My nostrils are solidified. I look at Jamie, giving him a watery smile. “Thank you for bringing me here.”
“It’s no issue,” he says in a rough voice, and then looks at Mama’s gravestone. “May I say something to her?”
I blink. “Yeah, sure.”
He clears his throat. “Mrs. AlQudsi, Jihad’s mom, Salam alaykum.
I’d like to introduce myself. My name is Jamie Murphy, and I’m eighteen years old.
I’ve recently become Muslim. I’m pretty good at soccer, and my favorite food is anything my grandmother makes.
I’m Jihad’s friend, and I think I’d like to tell you about her.
I’m not sure if anyone has. She’s…” He smiles, eyes faraway above her headstone.
“Brilliant. I know you’ve seen the art she draws, but I can tell you she brings life to it.
And not just because they’ve turned into murals all over New York.
Yeah, everything she draws in the sketchbook she found is on nearly every building.
But that’s not what I’m trying to say. There is emotion in every color and sketch.
She’s funny and kind. She shines so brightly in school that everyone can’t help but look at her.
She thinks they’re staring because of her name and hijab, but I know most of them are staring because she simply glows.
“When I first talked to her, I felt incredibly intimidated because as kind as she is, she’s brave.
I know she doesn’t see it. She tries to keep her head down, but I’ve seen her not back away when someone tries to hurt her.
She doesn’t let them get to her. The times when she does smile, I can’t help but stare.
She told me how you spoke to the jellyfish and whales and how you breathed in the Mediterranean.
I think she could do the same. I think when she goes to San Francisco, she’ll find the relatives of those jellyfish because I know they talk to one another.
I just know they’ve heard of her. I want you to know she’s changed my life, and I’m just the beginning of a long list of people who will absolutely love her.
Thank you for her. Thank you for naming her Jihad.
” He finally looks at me, smiling. “She’s all the colors of bravery. ”