I roll my eyes and glance at him. My lips fall in surprise when I finally notice I can see the color of his eyes.
Brown.
A warm, wonderful brown.
I think I’d like to paint them. They would look wonderful as a mural.
“What?” he says, self-consciously, rubbing his nose. “Is there something on my face?”
“N-no.” I clear my throat. “You have brown eyes.”
“Yes?” he says slowly. “I do.”
“What color is your hair?” I ask, and he tilts his head to the side. Frustration builds inside me that I can’t see all his colors. The red still beats in his soul, but I don’t know the shade of his hair, his skin, his lips, if I was right about orange being the color of his soul.
He scratches the back of his neck. “It’s blond now. I bleached it a while ago, but it’s supposed to be black. Does it not look blond?”
“It does,” I say. Gray has its shades, and I can see that his roots and a part of his hair are darker than the rest.
He pats the darker places. “Yeah, it needs to be bleached.”
“I think you should let the black grow out.”
His eyes glimmer, and I’m mesmerized by the contrast of the gray against his eyes. They’re so full of life, I think they outshine the sun. My thoughts surprise me, but I tell myself I’m looking at him through the eyes of an artist. Even so, there’s something so wonderful in being looked at with such warmth. To have someone be there for me like he has been.
“You think?” He glances up at the sky with a half smile. “I’ll do that, then.”
My cheeks heat up. “You don’t have to do it just because I told you.”
“I don’t have to,” he agrees. “But I want to.”
The gray wavers before settling back.
“Can I ask you something?” he says. “It’s a bit personal. You can absolutely tell me to screw off.”
“Screw off?” I say with a smile in my voice.
“Well, I’m not going to say thef-word in front of a lady.”
I shake my head, a quiet laugh melting away all my anger. “Sure. Go ahead.”
His easy demeanor falls away. “I want to ask how you deal with grief as a Muslim. Like about the afterlife, and how you make peace with that.”
I blink, straightening up.
His fingers tap on his knee. “My bà ngo?i practices Confucianism. She raised my mom and me on it. There isn’t much about what happens in the afterlife. It’s more about being a good person right now and living ethically. The stuff with death is mostly honoring our ancestors during T?t Nguyên Ðán. I respect that, and I live by it. But I always wondered about what happens after.” He looks around, smiling faintly at the life happening around us. “I researched, but I wanted to know something more than facts from the internet.”
I stare at him.
He raises his hands in apology. “I know. I’m sorry. I’ll screw off. It’s too personal.”
“No, no.” I lean back against the bench, tightening my grip on my knees. “I guess in Islam, life and death are very much intertwined. We know exactly what happens after we die. What happens in the grave. We know death isn’t eternal. It’s just a moment in time, and the afterlife is what’s eternal. It doesn’t make losing someone easier.” I close my eyes, taking in a deep breath. “It’s more like something you hold on to while going through the grief. We believe that the dead hear us. I know every good deed I do in my mom’s name goes to her. I know when I visit her grave, she knows I’m there. I know she knows when I pray for her. And it helps to know she knows this.”
I swallow hard. “But it’s horrible knowing I’ll live the rest of my life without her in it. She’ll never see me graduate. I’ll have so many new moments in my life without her. There were so many things she had yet to tell me. I lost a lifetime with her. But you know what’s worse than all of this?”
He shakes his head, his face sorrowful.
“That there will come a time when this pain inside me is not soul shattering.” My voice trembles. “That I’ll be able to talk about her and smile instead of wanting to cry forever. I know this is a mercy time gives me. But Ihateit. I don’t want to forget this feeling. I want this anguish to always be a part of me. Because how can I move on? I lost mymom. Mymotheris dead. She’sdead.”
