#41 in Spiritual 2/3/17.
Religion. It's a big part of you. Some would say that religion is basically who you are.
All her life Amira has been told who she is. What she is.
A Muslim girl.
But the more she learns about her religion the more she r...
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After weeks of packing and mentally preparing myself for college I've learned that I hate packing with every fiber of my being. I simply am incapable of deciding what to bring along with me and what to leave behind. What if I leave something and later be in such dire need of it that I die of regret? Just the thought of that makes me want to rip my hair out.
"Done?" My mother steps into my bedroom and sits down on the bed, her one hand playing with the hem of the bedspread, and the other lying limp in her lap.
"Almost," I take my novels out to decide which ones to take and which ones to leave behind.
"You must be careful Amira," She starts, "College is nothing like high school."
"I know mom," I think I should leave my John Green collection behind- there's only so many times one can read the same books.
"There will be boys, parties, drinking," She continues, "And you can try it all if you want, just remember to be... proper."
I'm definitely taking my John Grisham collection, I put the books in a carton and wipe my hands on my faded jeans.
"And if you ever feel alone, just come home," My mother fidgets uncomfortably and I turn to face her.
"I know mom," I reply halfheartedly. She and I both know full well that if ever I need company, she'd be the last person I'd run to. I continue sorting my books out.
I guess I should take a couple Stephen Kings-
"He would have been proud of you,"
My head jerks up and my eyes shoot to my mother's face. She looks so vulnerable in this moment. So fragile and broken.
"Your father would have been proud," Her voice breaks as she nears the end of the sentence I never thought I'd ever hear come out of her mouth.
"Don't you ever wonder what happened to him?" I ask, seizing the opportunity to get some answers.
"He was horrible to us Amira," My mother says what she always says.
"I know, but don't you sometimes want to know how he's doing?"
"No," She replies and buries her face in her hands, "We're happy now."
I go over and sit down next to her, close enough to see the tears that have gathered in her eyes. I would give her a hug. I wish I could give her a hug, but I'm afraid she'll push me away like she did when I was 13 and decided to hug my mother after winning the state spelling bee championship. She had pushed me away and simply told me it was improper and I'd never dared to try to hug her again.
And so I sit next to the woman who deprived me of the affection I so badly needed whilst at the same time giving me all the love I could ever ask for. I put a hand over hers and give her a small- and what I hope to be reassuring- smile. She smiles back for a sliver of a second before composing herself and shaking her head like she was snapping out of a trance.
