“Hey,” Jamie whispers when we’re twenty minutes away. His voice is strange in this small, enclosed cab. Like he’s speaking through a vacuum. “It’s going to be okay.”
I nod, my mouth dry.
The taxi drops us off at the entrance. This part of Long Island is so different from New York City, with endless thickets of trees every which way, and I can see the gravestones after the sign welcoming visitors.
Jamie stands beside me, pulling his coat tighter around him.
Even though it’s noon with the sun out, there’s a little chill in the air. I hope Mama isn’t cold in her grave. I hope it’s a piece of heaven on earth, holding her in a warm embrace.
“Should we go in?” he asks.
I rub my nose and walk inside.
Mama died when spring began to wake up. A cruel twist of fate that when everything was coming to life, she was gone. Her funeralwas small, attended by close friends on a particularly sunny day, and I remember the smell of roses as clearly as if I’m smelling them right now. They permeated the air, painting it red and white. When they put her into the ground, I couldn’t stop thinking of how the soil smelled like it was infused with flowers. A blessing like the earth knew her.
And now it’s almost two years, and the soil is once again alive after winter’s slumber. And yet, I feel numb. So do my feet. I look down to see that the color has been leeched from them. It spreads into the ground, making it all colorless.
“Jamie,” I say in a raw voice, but he doesn’t answer. I look around to see he’s not beside me but has walked over to where reception is. A small floral stall stands there, an old man sitting by it wrapped in a huge, fluffy blanket. Jamie picks the largest bouquet, a mix of blue hydrangeas and white calla lilies.
He jogs back to me, wearing a wide, shy smile. “Okay, I’m ready.”
There’s an ache in my heart, but when I look down at my feet, I see the color has returned.
I know exactly where she is, even though I’ve been here only three times. I wish I could come as much as I want, but she’s so far away.
“Baba had to pay about ten thousand dollars for her to be buried here,” I say quietly, and Jamie comes closer to listen. “There aren’t any plots for Muslims in the city, so it’s either here or Jersey.”
“You can’t bury your mom in Jersey,” he says, and I smile.
“We liked it here.” I look up at the gray-blue sky. “Open field. Close to the ocean in a way. Not landlocked like the one in Jersey.”
We reach the Muslim section of the cemetery, where an Arabic sign reads:
“It means ‘Heaven’s Door,’” I tell Jamie, and he nods.
Mama isn’t far away, and I feel like I’m retracing my steps from her funeral. I can see myself, dried tears on my cheeks, listening toAmal hiccuping, seeing Baba and the other men from the mosque holding her coffin up, and the smell of flowers everywhere. Seeing the colors slowly fade away, getting lighter and lighter.
“Salam alaykum, Mama,” I whisper when we finally reach her.
Her headstone reads:
TOALLAH WE BELONG, AND TOHIM WE RETURN
ZAINAALQUDSI
BORN 15TH OFNOVEMBER
DIED 7TH OFAPRIL
I raise my hands in prayer, reciting the Fatiha under my breath, and Jamie follows suit, tucking the bouquet under his arm.
Mama, I’m here, I think.Can you hear me? Can you feel me?
I miss you so much. I miss you in moments I never thought I’d miss you in.
I knew I’d miss you in the big moments. In the morning when I wake up. When I draw something particularly amazing. When there’s something I want to tell you.
But I miss you when the saltshaker is empty. I miss you when I cook your recipes. I miss you when I see a leaf. I miss you in my bones. I miss you in all the conversations we’ll never have.
