Between Her Prayers and My Dreams

The first thing I ever heard in this world wasn’t the doctor’s voice or my father’s cheer — it was her prayer. My mother used to tell me, “You cried as if the world hurt you the moment you arrived. But I whispered a verse, and you quieted like you understood it.”

I never believed that story growing up.

But I do now.

She wasn’t loud. She didn’t need to be. My mother existed in silences — in the way she folded my clothes, in the soft clink of her bangles as she stirred morning tea, and in the late-night hum of whispered duas. I never noticed how often her life was about me. Until she was gone.

And I’ve been chasing her whispers ever since.

The Last Ordinary Morning

The morning she died was cruelly normal.

She left my breakfast in the oven, warm and covered. I didn’t eat it. I was late. Rushed. Self-important. I shouted a quick, “Bye, Amma!” and didn’t wait for her reply.

That evening, I came home to silence — not the peaceful kind, but the hollow kind that presses on your chest.

Her prayer mat was still on the floor, her favorite scarf hanging on the door like it missed her shoulders. My uncle sat in the hallway, face wet, whispering, “She’s gone, beta… just didn’t wake up.”

I stared at the spot where she used to pray and wondered — was her last breath a prayer too?

Echoes in the Walls

Grief is not thunder. It’s not loud.

It’s a quiet leak. A silent unraveling of everything you thought was permanent.

For weeks after her death, I still set an extra plate. I still found her bobby pins tucked into the sofa, her handwritten notes in recipe books, her old scent trapped in my sweaters.

I didn’t cry.

Not at the funeral.

Not when they lowered her.

Not when people said, “She’s in a better place.”

But I dreamt of her every night. And in each dream, she never spoke.

She just smiled — then pointed to the sky. As if telling me, “I left my prayers there. You’ll find them someday.”

When Grief Began to Speak

One day, I opened her drawer. Not the one with clothes. The wooden one she always locked. I don’t know why I opened it — maybe I was searching for her voice.

Inside was a notebook — old, bound in red cloth, the corners curled.

Each page was filled with her handwriting.

Not stories. Not recipes.

Prayers. For me.

"Ya Allah, protect my son when I no longer can."

"Make his heart kind. Keep his nights light. Let him feel loved, even when I’m dust."

I couldn’t breathe.

I wasn’t just raised by her hands.

I was raised by her prayers.

The Forgotten Hug

I remembered the last hug I gave her. It was one of those distracted hugs — the kind you give when you're on your phone, or thinking about an email.

She had hugged me tightly. I had let go quickly.

And yet, now, her embrace is the only thing I crave. I sleep curled on her side of the bed. Sometimes, I feel the weight of her hand on my head. I convince myself it’s the wind, but in my heart, I know better.

The Dream That Changed Everything

One night, the dream was different.

She stood in the same courtyard where I had played as a child. She wore her white scarf — the one she only wore during Ramadan. And this time, she spoke.

"Stop looking for me in the past," she said.

"I’m in your future. In every kind thing you do. In every soul you heal. In every prayer you whisper for someone else."

I woke up sobbing.

What I Never Told Her

I never told her I loved her enough. Never asked her how she was feeling. Never thanked her for staying awake when I had fevers, for skipping meals when I was hungry, for hiding her sadness when I was low.

But I carry her now.

Every time I see an old woman cross the street, I remember her.

Every time I hear a lullaby, her hum returns.

Every time I fall asleep — I hope she visits.

Between Her Prayers and My Dreams

I live there now. In that space between what she left behind and what I’m still becoming. I speak to her in the silence of dawn. I try to become the kind of man she would pray for.

Some days, I succeed.

Some days, I just cry.

But every day — I try.

The Letter I Wrote Too Late

"Dear Amma,

You were right. About everything.

About kindness. About patience. About God. About love.

You once told me: 'Even if the world forgets you, a mother’s prayer never does.'

I feel you. In the warmth of tea. In the coolness of wind. In the strength I didn’t know I had.

You’re not gone. You’re just waiting.

Until I meet you again — in a dream, or in forever.

Your son, always."

Final Paragraph

We live in a world that forgets too quickly — forgets the hands that fed it, the voices that sang to it, the prayers that shielded it.

But I remember.

And in remembering her — I remember myself.

Because everything I am…

is still living between her prayers and my dreams.