Talking to the Moon ✔

-Chapter: Eleven-

"Grief is like the ocean;

It comes on waves ebbing and flowing.
Sometimes the water is calm, and
sometimes it is overwhelming.
All we can do is learn to swim."

______________

I stood in front of the mirror that hung delicately by a screw attached to the wall. It had a golden frame, and it was something that my father had gifted our mother on their first anniversary.

After that, Asad was born, and my father could not afford to give her gifts anymore. This was the only possession we had in our house that looked fancy.

I studied my reflection with an unwavering gaze, my eyes had dark circles underneath them and were red - maybe because of the crying or the lack of sleep - my lips were chapped, and my skin was pale as if all the blood from my body was lost. I licked my lips, and my hands started working swiftly to braid my dirty hair.

I could hear the soft murmurs of the people that had started to trickle in or maybe it seemed soft because my senses had dulled. I was incapable of feeling anything, I hadn't cried for an hour now.

I blinked and so did my reflection. The Moon was wrong, I didn't change, at least not physically. Maybe I would change as a person, but would I be at fault? Could someone blame me for that? Could someone blame me for changing if I lost someone I held close? Imad was my blood, he was in my essence, I lost him. I lost a piece of me with him.

Some women appeared in my room and said something that I ignored; I didn't even look at them as I stood transfixed at my reflection. One of them put a consoling hand on my shoulder, I shrugged it off.

The women must have thrown confused glance at each other, they must have thrown a pitiful glance at me. I didn't know and I did not care. They left. I breathed.

I looked away from my reflection and towards the hall. It was filled with women of different age and sizes. Some wiped their tears as they mourned for my brother, while others whispered among themselves and stared at my mother.

She sat in the same position, at the same place from that of the morning. The only thing that changed was that baby Imad was no longer in her lap. I had tried to coax her to change, to eat, to weep, but she was stoic. I could not even fathom what she was feeling at the moment. She had kept baby Imad in her womb for nine months and then had gone through agonizing pain to bring him to the world, only to have him stolen from her in six month's time. If people claimed that they could relate to her, I wanted to ask them whether they had lost a baby so soon?

I made my way through the women, not caring that my knee hit their shoulders or my feet pressed against their bottom. I could not handle them; I did not need them. I walked outside of my house and was welcomed by the sight of men. Too many of them were sitting outside, alongside or around my father and brother. I recognised Master Maha sitting just behind my father, in modest clothing, on the ground. He met my gaze, and I gave him a brief nod.