Sajdaa Taha

I had been to many funerals in my life. I had seen distress. I had witnessed people dying right in front of me. I had helped people cope with the death of a beloved, but never did I expect it to happen to me.

I was very familiar with death, yet this time it felt like a stranger at my doorstep. It felt as if I lost a piece of my heart. Memories that flooded my mind with happiness seemed to drown. I couldn't understand this feeling of helplessness. I've seen people die, but this emotion was so foreign to me.

Everyday in weekend school I'd listen closely to the lectures about life and death. We were all created to die. No one would live forever. It was not biologically possible. I was always warned that death was sudden.

I was warned to make every day of my life count because I would never know when my end would come. I was told to cherish those close to me because I would never know when it would be the last time I saw them. I was given so many warnings, so many signs and still I subconsciously ignored each one. Regrets weighed heavily on my heart as I began to think about that fateful day.

It was three days after the New Year celebrations. My family and I had traveled to New York. The weekend was filled with laughter and elation. We came home tired and exhausted, however no one knew what was yet to come.

Beep Beep.

My alarm buzzed. I groggily opened my eyes. I squinted at my bedside clock. It was almost ten am. Damn, I thought. I was late to school with no ride. I face palmed. How am I going to explain to my teachers that I missed school because I slept in?

I shrugged the thought away. I would just say I was ill. That usually is a justifiable excuse for missing school. I pulled my covers off.

Immediately, the cold air hit me like a bucket of ice fell over me. I shivered and I looked around for something that would bring me warmth. In the corner of my vision I saw my brown hoodie. I quickly slipped it on. Then I did my regular morning routine, which consisted of brushing my teeth and washing my face. Nothing was out of the ordinary.

As I walked out of the bathroom, I saw Mom sitting on the couch with stress lines etched across her forehead. She rubbed at her temple in pain. Mom was more stressed out than usual this week. There was a phone pressed to her ear, and she talked softly.

She was probably talking to her sisters in Bangladesh. Mom's younger sisters always kept her up to date about what was going on. Still, Mom looked more disturbed than usual. I had wondered what happened to cause her such stress. Mom saw me and put her hand over the speaker.

"Pray for your uncle after you eat, he's still ill," she said as she winced at the memory.

Mom had two younger sisters and one younger brother. When she got married to Dad, my uncle was six years old. Mom basically raised my uncle as if he was her own son. My uncle was a great man. He treated me and my brother like we were his own kids.

He protected me from unwanted eyes. He took me places on his motorcycle and bought me more gifts than a princess could have. Maybe that was an exaggeration, but he did treat me like I was royalty. He had a nickname for me, 'little bird' in Bangla. I reminded him of a bird chirping because I talked too much as a child.

Mom got up to pray with my grandma, while I went to go make breakfast. I switched on the stove and watched as small, blue flames sparked underneath the steel, metal pan. The flames reminded me of the red flames of hell, and I was instantly reminded of a lecture from weekend school.

After a soul dies, the time in the grave will depend on whether they go to Jannah (heaven) or Jahannam (hell). If the soul goes to Jannah, then the time in the grave will be more blissful and spacious than anything in this world. However, if the soul was evil, then the time in the grave will be so painful and uncomfortable that their ribs will be squished into each other.

It was interesting how religion could shape one's mind and decision making. I shook my head at my thoughts. Here I am looking at a blue flame and thinking about the Afterlife. I shouldn't think about death while making breakfast.

As my previous thoughts vanished, I heard a blood hurling scream from the living room. Immediately, I turned off the stove and ran to the living room. My mind raced with all the bad events that could have happened.

Did someone die? Is my grandpa in critical condition at the hospital? Did something happen to my father at work? Did my mother have a heart attack?

I approached the living room to see Mom sobbing with tears streaming down her flushed cheeks. Her expression was solemn and her eyes wide like a deer in front of headlights.

Then she dropped the phone and screamed again.

Just as she fell, I caught her right before she hit the ground.

"Mom? What happened?" I asked, panicked.

She sniffled and caught her breath as she slowly told me the words that shattered my heart into a million pieces. "You don't have an uncle anymore," she whispered, brokenly.

It was as if the world stopped its orbit and froze into space. The man who protected me from the evil in the world was gone. The man who let me destroy his cigarettes and hit him with pillows was no longer walking this earth. Not once did he ever get infuriated with me. He never raised his voice around me, and made sure no one would put me in harm. Now, he's dead?

I felt myself slowly collapse with my mother. My grandma was in her room weeping for her deceased son. I held back a gasp as my mind went through all the memories I had of him. Allah, you took him away so soon.

"Who are you going to call uncle now?" Mom whimpered. "He loved you more than he loved anyone. Where will you find another uncle?" she said with an uneven breath.

I was silent for awhile, trying to comprehend what I just heard. I couldn't trust my voice as I felt my lips tremble and my throat dry up.

"My uncle is with Allah now, Mom," I said, shakily. "We can't do anything about it."

That only made her weep more. "Oh Allah," she cried, "You took my brother so soon. He has two kids, Allah. Who will watch them now?"

"Mom, shh, it's okay. Allah will take care of them," I tried to comfort her, but her wailing did not cease.

"I raised him as if he was my son. He was only six when I got married. He stayed with me. I fed him. I clothed him. I raised him! Now, he's gone!" she sobbed, louder.

"Mommy, please calm down," I begged with tears streaming down my cheeks like waterfalls. She ignored my plea.

"Oh Allah, where did my brother go? Why did you take him so soon?" she asked, sorrowfully.

"Please calm down! You're going to hurt yourself!" I shouted. My fear for my mother's safety was never as high as it was now. I lost an uncle, but I can't lose my mother as well.

My mother never looked as distraught as she did in that moment. She couldn't even function because she was so drowned in her grief. I was trying my best to be strong for her and my grandma, but when I see my mother cry like that I just freeze.

My mind, body, and soul didn't cooperate with each other. My heart beat faster and my eyes got blurry, but I didn't know what to do. I was helpless, alone, and desperate for her to calm down. So, I held her.

I held her tightly to me and let her cry on my shoulders. I had to be strong for her. She was always there for me and now I have to be there for her.

After a couple minutes in our misery, I heard loud footsteps. My mind was in a depressed haze to even care. I had been stroking my mother's hair while I quietly cried to myself. He's gone. He's really gone. I couldn't believe it. Denial was so strong in my mind, but deep in my heart I knew Allah had called him home.

Pulled out of my thoughts, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to look at the intruder and it was a familiar face, my older brother. Concern was etched into his eyes as he saw the mess our family was in. He raised an eyebrow, questioning what was happening.

I simply said in a meek voice, "He's gone."

My voice sounded foreign even to me. It was lifeless and cold. My voice was feeling the effects of my own heart.

"Who is?" he asked, cautiously.

Only quiet sobs and heavy breathing were heard.

His muscles tensed as if he had sensed that whatever happened was going to be painful to hear. I gazed up at him as the constant pounding in my head got stronger.

My brother shared a lot of my uncle's qualities. They were brave and fearless men. Both smiled even when times were rough. They even had similar facial features such as coal black hair and a tiny beard. Both had gentle dark brown eyes. The only physical difference was my uncle had darker skin than my brother. They were both reserved people, but had a heart of gold. My uncle gave everything nice he owned to the poor villagers in Bangladesh. How could I tell my brother that our beloved uncle was gone?

"Your uncle is dead," Mom whispered.

Right in front of me, I watched my brother fall apart. His eyes started to swell with unshed tears. His lips trembled. I had never seen my brother cry. He was always the strongest in our family, yet here he was with tears starting to stain his cheeks.

"I don't know what to do," I told him, with fear lacing my quiet words.

I was terrified of what was to come. What if someone else I loved died like that? What if my uncle's kids get angry at my family and I for not being there with them when their dad died? What if his wife leaves his two little kids? Fear was consuming me, and I felt lightheaded.

My brother sensed that and squeezed my shoulder in reassurance. He gently smiled at me through his tearful eyes, "It's going to be okay. Allah will take care of him," he said. "You have to be strong for Mom," he softly told me.

I mutely nodded my head. I didn't trust my voice to speak when this dark cloud was hovered over me.

He sniffled a little and rubbed his eyes. Then, he cleared his throat and said, "I'm going to call Dad. I doubt he knows."

He looked back at my mother, who was still calling out to Allah and reminiscing her memories of my uncle. My brother sighed as he ran his fingers through his thick black hair. After a minute of recollecting himself, he left the room while dialing a number on his phone.

I held onto my mother as her sobbing did not cease. My heart felt heavy. Weights were added to my shoulder as the truth continued to burden me. He was so young. He didn't have to go so soon. I knew he was in a better place, but what about everything he left behind?

He left us, and now I had no uncle. My only uncle was the first to go. I didn't even get the chance to say goodbye. That was my biggest regret of them all. When I had the chance, I didn't talk to him. I took our time together for granted.

A couple of minutes go by, and the cries of agony stop momentarily. Silence echoes around us with the occasional sniffling. Mom's arms tightened around me.

"Do you remember him?" she asked, so quietly that I barely heard her muffled voice.

"Yes, I remember every moment that I ever spent with him."

There will never be a day where I will forget about my uncle. He was special, kind-hearted, loving, but most of all he cared. Life is full of experiences. We meet, we love, we live, and we die. However, we're never forgotten. I will never forget my uncle, and for the rest of my life, I will pray that Allah takes care of him.

Just then I felt my phone beep. I quickly took it out to see who texted me.

Unknown: I see your grave right next to your uncle's. Watch out, kid. I'm coming for you.

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