Mourning!

And there it is    that tight squeeze in my chest, that missing breath when I first wake up, that sudden rush of adrenaline making my ears ring, igniting my disoriented brain with the new reality: My father is dead.

What do I do now? How do I get out of bed? Do I go about my day’s chores the way I always have? How could I with the weight of a planet pushing down on me, sinking my head deeper into my pillow?

Go back to sleep.

Go back to dreaming nonsense.

Go back to being unaware.

     Such is God’s Will.

Those words get me up. Words that move my feet and make me brush my teeth and put on the striped t-shirt he liked. I empty the dishwasher and clang dishes too loud, and then I pause. He doesn’t ask me to take it easy, he doesn’t complain about the noise. He doesn’t say anything anymore.

     Be strong.

Two more words carry me through my morning coffee. I use his favorite mug    the one with the Native American scene painted in bright colors, the one that will probably chip or break someday because nothing lasts forever. And where would I be then? Would I still be disjointed like this? Which mug would I use?

I don’t want to be strong, baba. I don’t want to hold it together for everyone’s sake. I want to be weak. I want to collapse and cry and scream and have to take pills to feel numb. I want this gut-wrenching feeling to pass, to go away, to leave me be.

I want to hang on to you, rub your shirt between my fingers like I used to do as a child to fall asleep. I want you to hug me back and say you would squeeze my bones out if I held on any tighter. I want to nag you to check your sugar level before you go to bed every night. 

Okay, make it one more night. Just one!

    Ask for mercy on his soul.

When did I ever stop? When every action, every thought, every breath I took was shaped by his strangely beautiful soul? Why ask God now? God is all knowing, and He must know how I feel. He is watching, listening, always.

I am a product of my father’s actions. I am an extension of his existence. I have a purpose and a road to travel. My father set the course, gave me the tools, and believed in my abilities. He loved me. He loves me still. 

Am I worth it, baba?


Lilas Taha is a novelist, winner of the 2017 International Book Awards  and is the author of Shadows of Damascus and Bitter Almonds.