A Dream

Ramadan Day 17 & 18

I woke up today wondering if yesterday was a dream.

The memory remains somewhere behind my eyes and the top of my head.

The faces and their big smiles linger.

I can hear laughter and chatter and feet tapping the floor, going back and forth, up and down stairs, through doors.

I hear my brother’s adhan.

I smell piyaju frying and pilau steaming and dal boiling.

I smell curries and biryani and samosas and cilantro and onions and yogurt and freshly baked cookies even before the lids and foil and wrappers come off the pots and trays.

I see hands placing sweets on a table and in my hands. I see hands serving, hands picking up cookies and dates and candy and goat cheese on crackers, hands opening and closing doors, hands making wudu, hands putting down bed sheets for prayer, hands building a fire, hands making s’mores, hands taking photos, hands picking up trash, hands lovingly wash dishes, hands folding tables and chairs, hands sweeping floors.

I see hands make a heart gesturing “I love you.”

I see lights flickering.

I hear Aya Nakamura sing about a liar.

I hear Ghazali sing about his heart floating on water.

I see a big smile as we talk about lipstick and community and algorithms and abayas.

I hear a knock at the door and see a black and white cake.

I smell oud burning and itr floating.

I see my clean home.

I see my prayer mat.

I see my bed.

I see my contentment.

I see a dream that makes me angry and sad — and I wake up from it today, with sunlight gushing in, wondering if last night was the dream.

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