Breaking Point

9

Chapter 9

There was a time once, when my father used to volunteer at the mosque. My family members were regulars at the dome shaped building located just a short drive away, near a corner store that sold halal meat and marshmallows. Sometimes we would walk back home, chewing soft candy and sipping sodas, and my dad would tell me about his duties at the mosque.

When we would arrive home, the fading sunlight painted our walls with eerie orange colours, as the sun sunk under the clouds. The neighbourhood was silent and still, and the sunset would wave us goodbye as we entered the house, the inside darkening by the minute. My mom would switch on all the lights, while Salma and I threw marshmallows at each other.

It was good. Life used to be good.

This is what I was thinking about, leaning my head back on my couch as I stared at the T.V all day. There is some reality show flickering on the flat screen, but I saw through it, my mind elsewhere. I remember back to the days before my education became such a huge concern to my father, before he would become upset and violent if I didn't bring home good grades, before my mother's forehead had not been creased with stress and worry over unpaid bills.

What happened to those days? The sun still rose and sunk, just as it did then. The light that flitted across the living room, washing the wall bright red and orange was still the same light that shone back then. It felt like yesterday; when we'd come home with marshmallows, filling the empty house with our laughter. Tears escaped my eyes.

I didn't want to go to school and face my peers. I didn't want to visit my father in the hospital. I didn't want to see my mother come home tired and exhausted from work. I didn't want to see my sister throw away a life that we'd always believed in. What was the point of living, if I didn't want to?

My father would have told me to pray, if he were here. And the thought occurred to me, as my thoughts build up and tower over my head. I wanted to desperately shake off the worry and hopelessness, so I got up and before I knew it I was heading towards the door. I found myself walking down the driveway, towards a familiar corner store. I turn and the light blue mosque appeared before me.

The truth was that I had not prayed ever since my father had fallen into a coma. My mother had become busy with work, my father's absence meant no more reminders to pray or read the Quran. Slowly, religion began escaping my thoughts and then, my life. I stood before the blue mosque, bathed in the evening light. A small cluster of people caught my attention, at the entrance of the mosque. My eyes followed them as they carried a coffin into an ink black funeral car. I stood there, entranced by the scene before me.

"Papa said they are going to the graveyard." A small voice made me jump.

I turned to see a small girl, with dark brown hair and large hazel eyes. She was dressed in a white, frilly dress and looked about six years old. Her small hand reached up to push her stray hair out of her face as her eyes followed the funeral car which had begun to back out of the mosque's parking lot. I finally registered her words.

"Oh, I see." Is all I had to say.

She turned her hazel eyes to me. "She is not coming back, papa said."

"Oh." My heart lurched.

"She's up there." The girl pointed at the sky.

I looked up at the darkening sky.

"But, it's okay, papa said." The girl's voice cracked. "One day I'll visit her."

Fat tears rolled down her face and I was too stunned to move. I watch a tiny, pained smile creep on her face, like she is trying to be strong. I felt defeated by this small child who had lost her mother and smiled through her tears because her papa had told her that she too, would have to die one day to visit her.