Welcome home, Mom

Dear Mom,

I remember Ramadans as a teenager in our Tenafly home, you’d try and wake me up for sehri (pre-dawn meal); some mornings I’d make it downstairs, but typically I’d fall back asleep and you’d come up with a bowl of cereal and banana so I could eat something before it was too late. Now, we’re planning your sehris, so you won’t have to come down the stairs—there’s a small microwave in the laundry room to heat your tea, a tray with boiled egg, PB&J, and fruit on a table in your room. What a precious month this will be. 

I’m so grateful you’re with us. The last two weeks since you arrived have been a whirlwind—lots of to-ing and fro-ing for a family wedding and get togethers. Your knees are starting to ache, you’re not used to so much activity. IA, the next few weeks will be restful and prayerful and peaceful. I know this is your favorite time of year. 

You worry that your memory is fading, so you asked for ‘chalk and slate’ () so I can write daily reminders. I promise, every evening we’ll go over the next day’s plans—when your Arabic Zoom class is, what time there are interesting religious talks you can listen to, sehri, iftar and namaz timings, when I’ll be out of the house; it’s easier for you to see things written out than to hear things on the go. You’ve asked me to be patient, not mind repeating things, slow down my pace, spend extra time with you. These are my Ramadan resolutions, my lifetime resolutions.

What worries you most is if Saanya and Zayd are hurting. Whenever Saanya calls (several times a day!) you always ask if she’s doing ok.  She is, mom. She’s figuring out her own path and managing with incredible resilience and fortitude, I’m so proud of her. There will continue to be good days and bad days and even some very bad days; that’s life. That’s where your duas come in; your prayers are potent, they’ll protect and guide the kids, and all of us. 

I love our chats in your room, lying on your bed, discussing who called and said what or sharing family tidbits. Dad’s tea-green leather sofa that you couldn’t part with against the wall, your navy blue recliner by the window, Dad’s apple and floral paintings all over, lots of books of suras filling your book shelf, your favorite chunky KitKats that Arif always gets you from London on your bedside with your bottle of badaam and kishmish (almonds and raisins). (Remember when you used to put seven almonds in my palm before I left for college every morning; brain food, you’d say.) Just entering your room feels like a haven—the heater is on, shades half drawn, bushes of roses outside your window—a cozy respite from the rest of the world (from the rest of the house!). 

The other day I was asking you questions from the 30 Days Journal about your childhood. You told me your favorite childhood memory was when your father would give you permission to go to a Sunday movie matinee, when you were about 13 in Dhaka, with your big brother as chaperone; you remember seeing On the Waterfront with Marlon Brando. The cinema would be packed, you’d see your school friends there with their older brothers—what a simple, beautiful memory. 

I’m excited that you can be part of our life here—it meant so much that you heard me speak at the Diyanet Center last weekend, that I could share your story from the stage and you were there to hear it. We’ll see the cherry blossoms, cook some recipes from Asma’s Ammu cookbook, go to ICCP iftars and talks, volunteer with KindWorks, and have lots of family fun with your sisters and nieces and nephews and little ones. Bubby and family are close by, they’ll visit often. IA you’ll find your rhythm and routine in your new home, I know it’s a huge adjustment. I’m sure Dad is smiling that you’re here; in a couple days it will be exactly four years since he left us. 

But there are a few rules in our house: no holding chai or watching a Pakistani drama on your phone as you climb the stairs, focus on one thing at a time; remember to take your cane and please don’t drag it behind you; if you want to go anywhere, please give me a day’s notice. We’ll figure out the rest as the days go along.

While there is no possible way that I can do for you what you’ve done for me all my life, and continue to do, I am so grateful you are living with us and I pray I can provide some comfort, some strength, some joy. Thank you for this blessing.

I love you mom.