Nostalgic tales stories from the heart

A Morning Journey

Each morning, at dawn, the first golden rays of the day would sneak through the windows of the house, bringing with them a soothing softness. At precisely five o'clock, my father, Abd El Kebir, would rise with unwavering constancy. This habit, he had maintained throughout his life, defying the years and trials. Even after glaucoma took his sight and diabetes weakened his vitality, he continued to rise with the same serenity, as if it were a sacred ritual that transcended time and ailments. For him, each new day was a promise, a new page to be written with determination and hope.

remember those mornings vividly. Though young, I would slip out of bed, drawn by the same golden light that gently woke my father. The morning's gentleness enveloped me as we prepared for our journey to the mosque. His unwavering devotion was a testament to his strength; life's difficulties had not managed to shake his faith and commitment. I admired his discipline and inner fortitude. He was a model of perseverance and serenity for me, embodying the quiet strength that I aspired to.

This nostalgic memory of my father transports me back to those peaceful mornings in Morocco. Under the first rays of the sun, the air was fresh and pure, laden with the intoxicating scent of blooming flowers and herbs. Each morning, my father would open his window to listen to the Adan, the call to prayer, which resonated softly in the morning silence: Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar Ash-hadu an la ilaha illa Allah Ash-hadu anna Muhammadan rasulu Allah Hayya 'ala al-salah Hayya 'ala al-falah Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar La ilaha illa Allah

This sacred chant, echoing through the neighborhood, was to him a sweet melody marking the beginning of a new day. It rose as a symbol of his unwavering faith and daily devotion. Each note resonated like a promise of a day filled with light and peace.

After purifying his body with clear water, my father would envelop himself in his prayer garment. He would be carried away by the morning breeze, a gentle breeze that carried with it the whispers of the emerging day. Accompanied by his faithful friend, who always guided him gently by the arm, he would walk to the mosque, the streets still wrapped in serene calm. The cobblestones resonated under our steps as the city seemed still asleep, offering an ideal setting for reflection and prayer. The two friends, walking together, were surrounded by the subtle aromas of pastries and traditional dishes, mingled with the spicy scents of cumin and cinnamon. This peaceful ambiance was the perfect prelude to the inner tranquility my father sought each day.

At the mosque, the intoxicating aroma of incense and essential oils enveloped us as soon as we crossed the threshold. The serenity that reigned in the prayer hall was almost tangible, a sacred tranquility inviting meditation and communion with the Divine. The faithful sat in orderly rows, and the atmosphere was imbued with a deep peace. Seeing my father integrate into this sacred ballet, his movements imbued with devotion and grace, I watched as his hands, marked by years of labor and prayer, expressed the beauty of a life dedicated to faith. His calluses, silent witnesses to his many prostrations, spoke of his perseverance and love for prayer.

When he recited the Quranic verse: "Piety does not consist in turning your faces towards the East or the West, but true piety is that of one who believes in Allah, the Last Day, the Angels, the Book, and the Prophets, and gives his wealth, despite his love for it, to relatives, orphans, the needy, the traveler, those who ask for help, and for the freeing of slaves" (Surah Al-Baqarah, 2:177), his words resonated as an echo of wisdom and compassion, illuminating his heart with divine light. His trembling voice, filled with emotion, deeply moved me. It reminded me of his vulnerability, a stark contrast to the strength I always saw in him. After the prayer, he would head towards the exit, carrying with him the softness of the morning and the golden rays of the sun. The birds, perched on the branches of trees, sang a soft and comforting melody, completing the tranquil symphony of the new day. My father would smile, a smile imbued with serenity and joy, recognizing the simple and pure beauty of each moment.

We would part ways at the mosque, our paths converging again to share moments of joy and reflection. I knew that with each step, my father carried within him a deep faith and unwavering grace. His place at the mosque was irreplaceable, a void that even the passage of time could not fill. The imam of our neighborhood once declared that he had never met a man as devoted and loyal to his daily appointment. His empty place remained a silent tribute to a man whose devotion and presence had touched many hearts. The mornings of my father, wrapped in the softness of faith and the beauty of the world, will forever remain etched in my memory as a testament to his life dedicated to prayer, serenity, and the love of each moment.

As the early morning's serene melodies transition us to a new chapter, we find ourselves drawn into another realm of nostalgia and sensory delight. The warmth and comfort of morning rituals lead us to discover treasures hidden in the folds of memory, much like those found in a grandmother's cherished cupboard.