I REMEMBER THE FIRST MOMENTS OF HOLDING YOUR HAND.
I remember the first moments of holding your hand it felt instinctive for you to offer your hand to me, and only natural for me to take it. My heart was filled with a strange relief, as though all our shouldered worries were as light as snowflakes brushed away by mittened hands, as though my previous life had disappeared into a past that would never revisit.
It was your hands, your kind, unquestioning hands. They made me want to tell you that you had repaired something broken and weary, sewed the ripped hems of my heart back together.
Your hands, holding me steady and keeping me balanced were a response to my silent prayers, my quiet moments of gratitude and trust in God. When I was waiting for them, waiting to be held and to hold, I wondered if you'd ever come and I doubted myself, doubted that any other hand could fit into mine, could feel as comfortable and smooth against my palms, could store an exponential love between ten fingers, intertwined.
So we held on tight as though we were making up for lost time, as though we would fall apart if our fingers weren't locked.
And I thought I would that is, I thought I would fall apart without your hands. And then you let go. Your hands fell to the pavement, and I wasn't there. My hands fell to my sides: hanging, waiting, grieving. I wasn't there to hold you as your soul departed your body. I couldnt reach you to help you, to carry you, to wrap you. You were held by someone else, ascending to where your Lord, Most High, was waiting for you.
I hope He filled your hands with rewards and coolness and peace. I hope you rejoiced with what He gave you. And the truth is I didn't fall apart without your hands. I continued to walk, to pray, to breathe, to live, even when I didn't want to. Even when the earth seemed like a wasteland. Even when the night was dark and perpetual. Even when my utter brokenness was rattling inside me and the seams of my heart were almost undone. I didn't fall apart.
But the weak, torn, imperfect, human hems around my heart still hope that perhaps you are somewhere, standing, hands outstretched, waiting.
It was your hands, your kind, unquestioning hands. They made me want to tell you that you had repaired something broken and weary, sewed the ripped hems of my heart back together.
Your hands, holding me steady and keeping me balanced were a response to my silent prayers, my quiet moments of gratitude and trust in God. When I was waiting for them, waiting to be held and to hold, I wondered if you'd ever come and I doubted myself, doubted that any other hand could fit into mine, could feel as comfortable and smooth against my palms, could store an exponential love between ten fingers, intertwined.
So we held on tight as though we were making up for lost time, as though we would fall apart if our fingers weren't locked.
And I thought I would that is, I thought I would fall apart without your hands. And then you let go. Your hands fell to the pavement, and I wasn't there. My hands fell to my sides: hanging, waiting, grieving. I wasn't there to hold you as your soul departed your body. I couldnt reach you to help you, to carry you, to wrap you. You were held by someone else, ascending to where your Lord, Most High, was waiting for you.
I hope He filled your hands with rewards and coolness and peace. I hope you rejoiced with what He gave you. And the truth is I didn't fall apart without your hands. I continued to walk, to pray, to breathe, to live, even when I didn't want to. Even when the earth seemed like a wasteland. Even when the night was dark and perpetual. Even when my utter brokenness was rattling inside me and the seams of my heart were almost undone. I didn't fall apart.
But the weak, torn, imperfect, human hems around my heart still hope that perhaps you are somewhere, standing, hands outstretched, waiting.
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❝One who guides to something good has a reward similar to that of it’s doer.❞
[Sahih Muslim Vol: 3, No; 4665]
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