And They Say Miracles Don't Happen..

My father died from a heart attack on April 27th, 1999. Today is June 25th, 2005.

Usually in Ismaili Muslim culture, there is a yearly prayer observed for the dead on the day they died at Jamat Khana (literally translated as house of prayer.) My mother would keep my dad's du'a (prayer) a week or so before his death anniversary because he died when he was young (36 years old.)

This year however, my family became extremely busy. My sister matured into a raging preteen with Aeropostale jeans, brightly colored lip gloss, dangly Charlotte Russe earrings and a new male obsession every week. My mother has become worn and gray, she was busy juggling our finances and cooking, now that she is finally a stay-at-home mom after a good.. oh I don't know.. 6 years?

I was stressed with school and exams, college applications and the search for an apartment in NYC (still kind of am if you wanna "holla".)

Procrastination takes it's toll as the "next weekend"s turn into "next month"s and before you know it, it's two days before you're about to leave and your family still hasn't sat down with the Qu'ran and honored the father you lost so long ago.

I finally sat down with my mother last week and began to cry for honestly no reason. But no reason's always have a reason deeply disguised within their roots and I suppose the truth spewed from my mouth before I could have any chance to think it out.

"So when are we keeping dad's du'a? I'm about to leave, you're about to move.. we can never be a normal family. What would dad say?"

I played the guilty chord and my mother broke down into tears so then it was set. This week's resolution of next weekend was finally going to be a set date as opposed to a "Oh we'll see."

Early this morning, my mother got up to prepare the roti and marinate the meat. I took a shower and hurriedly grabbed the first cash I could from her purse so I could go to the grocery store and buy some fresh milk and juice. I suppose when people are in a hurry, they tend to be extra clumsy and forgetful because I THOUGHT I had grabbed a ten dollar bill but an extra 0 appeared and I realized that it was ten times more than I initially thought it would be.

As I realized the value of the bulk of money I had, I did something rather stupid.

"What happens if I end up losing my wallet or purse.. how about I just HOLD the money I have, so I know where it is at all times."

Trust me, I'm not usually this irresponsible or stupid, but I was in a hurry and figured this was the best way to safeguard what I had. I quickly ran to the Express line and threw the items on the counter, only to find that the money I had held in my hand the entire time was gone. I searched all over the place, I retraced my steps, asked people around, circled the entire circumference of that store and still found no luck. I felt like such a loser and went home empty handed afraid of what to tell my mother.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU LOST A HUNDRED DOLLARS? HEENA, DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG IT TOOK ME TO EARN THAT MONEY? HOW COULD YOU BE SO IRRESPONSIBLE? YOU ARE 18 YEARS OLD."

I was sure she woke up the entire neighborhood. Her voice echoed in our tiny apartment as I stood there with tears rolling down my cheeks and stared at the shiny tiles on the kitchen floor my mother had just washed. I responded with many "I don't know"'s and "I'm sorry's" because there was honestly no justification or excuse to explain my absolute stupidity.

I went into my room and cried for a bit. When my pillow was soggy from my salty tears, my mother burst inside and told me to iron my dad's clothing. Usually every year we would iron his good shirts and Eid clothing to have it auctioned off for donation money into various relief funds. I was a bit shocked however because my mother had always ironed his clothing. Every year my mother would sit down on the ground and fold a blanket on the floor as my sister and I surrounded her and watched her move the iron back and forth across his Shalwar Kameez.

Today, was the first time ever, it would be my turn. I set the iron on high steam and sprinkled a little bit of water on his shirt and let the aroma sink in. It still smelled just like it used to when he would wake up early morning and tell my mother to hurry up so he could put it on. He had a strong scent of Old Spice shaving cream and thick Pakistani musk from a small little bottle of black liquid. My sister and I would run to hug him but secretly we were both racing to see who would get more money this year. I usually got a couple of extra bucks being the older one and my sister would sulk until my father pushed us all into the car to attend Eid namaz.

It was so peaceful ironing that shirt. The touch of the soft fabric, the intricate patterns of embroidery that designed the outfit and crisp feel of ironing out 6 years worth of wrinkles. My mother lit incense sticks in the dining room and the feeling of my childhood was complete. I felt it tingle throughout my body as the aroma wafted throughout our household and the fabric I had just ironed clung in my hands as I softly stroked it and felt it's smooth texture.

I neatly folded his clothing, carefully and slowly, making sure to not let it crease again and placed it next to the dining room basket of fruits. The smoke from the sticks stung my eyes a bit but as I exhaled it in, I felt so calm and relieved.

My entire life, I couldn't wait to be 18 but here I was, all grown up.. and trying so hard to relive my entire childhood in a blink of an eye because I yearned to go back so much.

The cooking was almost done as I helped my mother with the final preparations. She was still extremely furious at my stupidity but we shared no words and the silence delicately embraced us as we moved back and forth, checking on the meat, the rice, the cake, the soup. Sweat drenched us both and how I wished my dad could have been there to see me cook. He always wanted me to be the ideal Indo-Pakistani girl. Learning to cook, learning to sew, to mend, to heal, to love, to believe, to hope, to inspire.

I suppose there was some sort of depression that had clouded over my family for years and thinking about it got me extremely teary eyed. I was at an emotional cross road and I didn't know if I was ready to face such a dramatic change in my life. In two days, I would be boarding a flight and go the longest time I ever had without my mom. My mom was finally moving out of Texas, after 20 years and extremely nervous and worried if she would be able to manage on her own. My sister was well.. just Karishma.

I closed my eyes, even if it was for a spilt second, and prayed for a sign from God that everything would be okay.

My mother started to put the final spices on the Chicken Tikka and handed me 3 smelly bags of leftover meat fat and vegetable skin to throw away. I quickly put on my Old Navy flip flops and made my way to the dumpster feeling a little awkward with my new fire engine tresses and practically ran back home before someone I knew spotted me. Just before I was about to open my door, I looked at the door adjacent to my very own.

A lovely old Iranian lady, resided there. She was in her mid sixties but nonetheless still beautiful with tiny wrinkles that adorned her face and small white hairs that clustered her soft brown hair. I hadn't seen her in awhile so I decided to knock and make sure she was okay.

I knocked at her door and stood there as I could hear her yelling in Persian "I'm coming, I'm coming!" She looked so weak and frail as she slowly opened her door and greeted me with a huge smile. "How are you?" I asked, half relieved, half worried. "Good gracious Heena, I okay, I okay. God.. God is there Heena. He is there," she claimed as she pointed her finger towards the heavens and gave me a wide smile.

It was so hard to understand what she was saying because her voice was so soft yet her accent was so strong so I leaned in to hear what this wise, old woman had to say. She started using her hands to practically tell me a story for she knew my Irani was limited just as the English words she spoke were so few.

"I.. I going shopping today. Miracle. Miracle! God answer my prayers. I was by milk. I buy milk today. At store. I buy milk. God, He heard me today. I been very sick. No money. No money. No buy medicine for bad asthma. My bad asthma. Doctor's note sit at home for 4 long months. No money to buy. I got sick, very sick. Today found money at store. 100 dollars money. I buy medicine. I feel much better. God answer my prayers. God bless you too. I pray God answer your prayers. He is there!" she claimed, flailing her arms wildly up and down as she showed me the inhaler she had to wait four months to buy.

She put her hand on my forehead and asked God to bless me and answer my prayers too but little did she know that I stood there smiling because He already had.

Miracles do happen. Just believe.

~Heena