Awaited Redemption

Thursday | Walid

Walid

My eyes started to prick as I chopped the onions, the chicken stew that was brewing on the pot was in an immediate need of this ingredient.

As the last onion was chopped, I picked up the cutting board, tilted it at an angle on the stove, and dumped all of the chopped onions into the pot. After cleaning the knife off the little bit of left over pieces and dropping them into the stew as well, I started to stir it with a spatula.

"Walid! Walid Habibi! Where are you?" I heard my mom's voice, penetrating through the clatter of noises that were created as steel banged against steel, onions mixed with the oil as they let out a hiss, and the spatula that rotated the mixture in order for it to not burn.

I quickly pulled the spatula out of the pot, turned off the stove, and ran out the kitchen.

As soon as I reached the living room, my eyes found mom, she was hard to miss because she was the only blur of movement in the stoic still room.

She was wringing her hands, pacing the length of the room. Desperate. Worried.

Searching for answers that she thought somehow could be found by walking as much or probably as fast as she could.

I walked towards her, and she looked up.

I wished she wouldn't have done that, I wasn't ready to witness the torture behind her eyes.

But more then the torture, was the hope and trust that unnerved me.

The trust that begged me to help her, support her.

I wanted to run away as fast and as far away as I could.

Instead, I walked towards her, fighting myself, and pulled her in my embrace.

As soon as I did that, she put all her weight on me, and I wondered how she was still standing, before.

The sobs that got muffled against my chest made me weak in the knees, still I stayed put.

As my shirt soaked in her tears, I soaked in her pain, but after merely a few seconds, I couldn't hold it in any longer, and tears brimmed my eyes as well.

Escaping from my mother's eyes, and yet getting trapped within me.

They didn't take it easy. Instead, they fired back.

They decided to escape from my eyes.

After all, how much could a heart bear, holding in the agony of two broken souls.

I whispered out a strangled breath, and closed my eyes.

The tears finally escaped.

And I did the only thing I could.

I made Duaa.

رَّبِّ ارْحَمْهُمَا كَمَا رَبَّيَانِي صَغِيرًا
Surah Bani Isra'il; 17: 24

(Rabbir hamhuma kama Rabbayani Sagheera)

My Lord! bestow on them (parents) Thy Mercy even as they cherished (took care of me) me in childhood.

I kept repeating it, asking my Rabb for His Mercy upon my parents.

The parents who made me what I am today.

I remembered the time when mom used to cry, sitting on the prayer mat, she would be done with her prayers, and would just sit there.

Getting rather worried, I used to inch closer for an inspection, and I used to find her hands shielding her face from our vision, the scarf around her head also used for covering both her palms.