Nostalgia
The summer air is warm, with a light breeze carrying the scent of the evening. The sun sinks lower, its golden light fading into soft shades of orange and purple. The sky slowly darkens, wrapping the world in a quiet calm. Iftar time is near. My impatient dry lips are staying still. Families prepare their meals, the aroma of freshly baked bread and simmering dishes drifting through open windows. A few kids run past, I was a calm one, their laughter echoing in the distance. Somewhere, a father returns home from work, and a mother sets the table with care. The call to prayer begins, a familiar, soothing sound. The day fades, and the night quietly takes its place, bringing warmth, gratitude, and a moment to pause. With the first sip of water, a sense of relief fills the room. The meal is over, and my hunger is gone, but a different kind of preparation begins. With my body refreshed and my mind at ease, I make wudu, letting the cool water wash away the fatigue of the day. The night air is calm, carrying the distant murmur of voices and the soft rustling of trees. My heart feels light, yet there’s a quiet energy within me. I step outside, the streets now filled with others like me—satisfied, yet ready for another journey. Tarawih awaits, a peaceful ending to a long day, a moment to stand, reflect, and reconnect. The air is cooler now, but the body still feels the weight of the day. Standing in prayer, the fatigue slowly creeps in—knees stiffen, the neck grows heavy, and thirst lingers in the throat. The imam’s voice flows steadily, each verse long yet beautiful, each movement testing patience and endurance. The first few rak’ahs feel smooth, but as time stretches, the struggle begins. Legs ache, focus drifts, and the thought of rest becomes tempting. Yet, there’s a quiet strength in pushing through, a silent battle between exhaustion and devotion. The night is long, but so is the reward.
The prayer ends, and the night feels different—calmer, lighter. The air is crisp, carrying the soft murmur of voices and occasional laughter. No one rushes home; we walk slowly, the weight of fatigue balanced by a quiet sense of peace. Conversations drift between jokes and reflections, our steps unhurried under the dim streetlights.
At home, the table isn’t empty yet. A bowl of fresh watermelon, some dates, maybe a handful of nuts. The first sip of cold cherry juice is pure relief, washing away the dryness of the long prayer. The body is tired but not restless. Sleep comes slowly, gently, because in just a few hours, another call will wake us—Suhoor awaits, and another day begins.
All years except this year.
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