Prayers are like dances, too.
I stand, making my intent known.
I bow, a glorification of Allah.
I prostrate, touching my forehead to the ground.
I sit, turning my face to the left, and to the right.
In America, we pray at our cottage,
in a sparse, tidy room.
Baba, Mama, and I
visited local mosques a few times,
but the trips were too taxing for Baba.
He is too sick, too weak,
to go anywhere but the hospital.
So we kneel on woven rugs,
privately,
facing the Grand Mosque in the city of Mecca,
as all Muslims do.
I pray to honor Allah, to instill Him in my heart.
I pray to give Him thanks, and ask for His guidance.
I pray to demonstrate submission.
I pray to fortify my faith because
sometimes
I ponder Islamic teachings,
as I ponder other enigmas,
like the moon’s dusty surface,
and the sea’s sandy floor.
I want to know more—
I want to understand.
I want to exist,
comforted and fulfilled
by my faith.
