Wounded: Our Journey Home

Wounded- Chapter Forty Five

Edited:

Published: Friday, February 12th 2016 5:38 pm

January 17th

           "Nothing?"

           "Yes," I nodded even though he couldn't see me, rubbing the sleepiness from my eyes. The last three days I've been staying up late at night with Ayah while she and her mother grieve. I just didn't feel right leaving her, so I didn't, but all the tiredness I will eventually get over. She, however, will remember me not being there for her again. Though Wasim doesn't know about the situation, he's been hell bent on convincing me to go to Miami since he told me about our fathers trip. But as temping as it is to go there and see if our suspicions are true, I'm not going to run after him because I want to ease my conscious. I won't be a referee to oversee everything he does with his estranged son. They're both grown men, which is why I'm staying out of it.

          "Jafar, you can't honestly tell me that you're not wondering."

          "No," I sighed, "I can't, but that doesn't mean I can just pick up and drive to another city off of a hunch."

          "A very accurate hunch."

           I rolled my eyes.

          "Whatever," My eyes drifted inside the house to catch Ayah arranging the flowers that she's taking to the cemetery today. She looks better than she did yesterday, but the exhaustion is clear on her face. No matter how many times I've asked her to take a rest, she's refused with the excuse of helping her mother out. I would have fought her on it, but hey, it's really not the time. My plan during this time is to be here for her, and if that means just sitting and not saying a word, then I'll do it.

           "Listen, Seem. I know that you are anxious to be apart of this—I am too—but sometimes you just have to let it be."

          "I'll feel better if I know."

          "Trust me," I told him, looking out into the sky, "it's better to leave it alone now before you get in way too deep."

-*-
Ayah:

          The amount of times I've been to the cemetery has lessened over the years, specially last year. With everything going on, I haven't really had the time to come, which is sad since he's my father, but I don't know. I guess the timing wasn't right. As a child, Mama would always bring me here to just sit and wonder. She said it made her feel like we were all together. Being physically there with someone you love isn't as important as knowing that they're there even when you can't see—you know. I grew up knowing he was there and increased my visits. I even went there by myself, which is saying a lot for an eight year old. The man whose grave I would always attend I didn't have the chance to remember knowing, but I know he knew me, and I know he loved me. And for that I love him.

          So many people have told me so. And the more I visited and just relaxed with the calm breeze, I started to love him. I always did, but it became stronger. Our bond—which some would see as invisible—was like looking at my own reflection. Clear as day. So when the time came for us to visit yet another time in the last twenty years, the tears ran down my cheeks like a river, and I soaked it all in. The guilt I had for not visiting in a while weighed on me, and the situation got to me.