Six feet under
Wherever she goes, I pray she finds me there, waiting for her. Someone must have created her with an abundance of love and care because I doubt I'll ever encounter another soul with such grace and playfulness. My life was like a kite, tethered securely in my own hands, but she entered my world only to cut the string and set it free. The simplest, most trivial things would cause her eyes to light up with wonder. Her smile captivated me from the moment we met; even when she stood face-to-face with death, she smiled as if she was finally returning home. She sacrificed her life to save mine—she cared for me that much. And on the night I lost her, it felt like I too was consumed by the same flames that took her away.
Our love was like sand in an hourglass, with each grain slipping through faster than we could grasp. Her smile radiated like the sun, and her face mirrored the serenity of the moon, casting its rays deep into my soul. May the angels sing her praises far louder than I ever could. May the Lord grant her a place in paradise, one as beautiful as she was in this world.
The sound of the Adhan echoed through the stillness, pulling me from the weight of my memories.
I've grown used to waking alone, though my mind remains foggy and unclear as I rise before the dawn. When I stand before the mirror, I see not just my reflection, but us—our love, our life—staring back at me. When the heavens called her, she ascended like an angel, seeking the King of Kings. And here I remain, fulfilling my duties as a husband, a man, a servant, and a believer. I refuse to lose sight of her; I cannot let myself stray. "Live for me," she had once whispered. Not everyone is granted a second chance, not everyone has the blinds lifted from their heart to see the truth. "I can't change your heart, Aubrey. Only the Lord can guide it." Each word she spoke cut through me like a blade. Though she has slipped away, and I chase her shadow in vain, she left a light within me, one so brilliant that it could never be extinguished.
I keep her love close to me—her memories, her scent, her toothbrush, her clothes, her shoes. They make me feel her presence. I long for the fragrance she left behind in the hallways and the objects she touched. We took each other for granted until life's upheavals forced us to recognize otherwise. Though we dreamed of summers, autumns, and springs, we only spent winter together. The day she left, I wasn't even cold; instead, I was consumed by the heat of my loss.
It was 5:40 in the morning. The world was still asleep, save for the worshippers. I would knock on the door of Allah five times a day, and each time, He would answer. When everyone else shut their doors in my face, I found freedom and solace in Islam—it was the only door left open to me. It wasn't my eyes that had been blind, but my heart. Ayah lifted the blinds, and the Lord liberated my heart by removing the stones buried deep within it. Regardless of one's beliefs—atheist, Hindu, Buddhist, Christian—the heart should be filled with love, not hatred. Hatred kills humanity, and where hatred resides, hope perishes.
I made my wudu, the cleansing ritual before prayer, and placed my prayer mat to face the Kaaba. In Islam, no matter who you are—rich or poor, black or white, with different ethics or upbringings—God sees us all equally. When Ayah gifted me Islam, I could give her nothing in return.
After finishing my prayer, I watched the sun slowly rise, its warm light falling on the frosted rivers, snow-covered fields, and towering structures that dotted the landscape. The light reached into every corner, leaving no shadow untouched. Even in the places where the sun had not yet arrived, it shifted from east to west, treating everything beneath it with equality. Finally, the warmth of the sun reached me, and the sky lit up, as though someone had descended from the heavens, or perhaps as if God was smiling upon the earth.
Ayah was declared dead on December 3, 2003, at 8:00 pm. Elsewhere, a small café lost one of its best staff members; an old greengrocer couldn't help but recall the girl who used to visit him with boundless energy on her way to work; the animals she used to feed now wandered, missing the scent of the woman who had cared for them; and the florist waited with a bouquet that would never be picked up. A father condemned himself; a sister lost her closest friend; and a brother regretted their last argument.
Today marked Ayah's seventh death anniversary.
I saw paradise in her eyes.
It was time to prepare for my visit to her grave. I couldn't help but think about the mysterious visitor my father mentioned—someone who would meet me later that morning. My father hadn't given me any more information about this person, only that I should be ready. I opened my closet and saw a set of white clothes, the "Panjabi" that Ayah had gifted me on my birthday. I wore them every Friday for Jummah prayers at the mosque.
Mrs. Flores, my housekeeper of twelve years, was already preparing breakfast in the kitchen. She had been with my family since my mother's time, taking care of me and Alex when my mother was busy. She had known Ayah too, and was present when Alex passed away. Mrs. Flores was like a second mother to us after our mother left. We called her "Kennedy." I sometimes wonder if things might have been different if she had been there the day of the tragedy. Back then, she was in her thirties, pregnant with her first child, and had worked for us for only a few years. Yet her loyalty and skill had kept her with us all this time. When I told her about Ayah's death, she couldn't believe me. She thought it was the worst joke I had ever played.
Kennedy peered at me through her glasses as she set the plate down. "Aubrey, eat while it's still warm," she said softly.
I sat at the white marble dining table, a vase of fresh roses in the centre. The table was meant for a family of five, with chairs made of polished timber and cushioned in black fabric. The morning sunlight streamed through the windows, casting a warm glow across the room. It was a scene straight out of the life we had imagined together, the family we dreamed of. The only thing missing was Ayah and the children we had planned.
"If we have a boy, we'll name him Zair, and if it's a girl, she'll be Aiza," Ayah had once told me, smiling as she intertwined her fingers with mine. Her head rested in my lap as I gently brushed the hair away from her hazel eyes and kissed her forehead. "Whatever my queen desires," I had replied.
As I ate my breakfast—pancake tacos filled with scrambled eggs—I asked Kennedy why she had come so early. I had asked her to come at 10 am. Tears welled up in her eyes as she answered, "I wasn't there when she left, but I can at least make you breakfast so that you can deliver a message to her from me." Every year, on Ayah's anniversary, Kennedy writes a note to her and asks me to read it at her grave. She never visits Ayah's grave herself, though. When I asked her why, she confessed that she couldn't. The mere sight of Ayah's name on the stone would leave her speechless, her heart aching too much to bear. Her tears would fall, but her voice wouldn't.
What did Ayah do to deserve such devotion?
Kennedy's life had been torn apart when her husband left, taking all her savings. Her family, shamed by the scandal, abandoned her, claiming she was cursed. But Ayah refused to let Kennedy be humiliated. She found her a good man, a widower with a young son, and organized their wedding. She invited all those who had shamed Kennedy, making sure they knew they were wrong.
"Smile," Ayah had said, "it's the best revenge against those who try to break you."
Ayah didn't stop there. She tracked down the man who had stolen Kennedy's money. By the time she found him, half the money was gone, but Ayah managed to recover the rest and return it to Kennedy. That act of kindness gave Kennedy a new start and a family. Ayah had given her dignity and love back to her.
As I finished breakfast, I pocketed Kennedy's note and headed for the door. Her final words echoed in my mind. "Ardel, never make a woman cry. Never." Ayah had told me this as we watched Mrs Flores walk down the aisle. "In Islam," she said, "if a man is responsible for a woman's tears, the angels curse him with every step he takes."
Even the key to paradise is held by a woman.
At the cemetery, I parked my car and picked up the bouquet of irises beside me. I let the present moment wash over me while getting lost in memories of the past, uncertain of what the future might tempt me with.
My heart began to race as I approached her grave. I felt blessed to have loved her, to have called her my wife. When I met her, my heart took over, and for the first time in my life, my mind failed to make sense of the whirlwind inside me. After all, who can ever truly understand the heart?
She lay beneath the earth now, in peace.
"Until we meet again, my love," I whispered, as the warmth of the sun enveloped me.