"Mommy!"
A tiny, loud voice rang out from a distance. Al quickly wiped away her tears, patted her cheeks, took a deep breath, and exhaled fully. The sorrowful face and eyes filled with longing transformed into a wide smile—as if she were the happiest woman in the world. She turned toward the source of the voice. A small figure was running, stumbling a few times, but getting back up to continue forward. Behind him walked Al's parents, trying to keep up while reminding him, "Be careful! Slow down!"
"Sweetheart!" Al scooped him up the moment he arrived in her arms. This little boy was Ahmad, her only child with Ahsan.
"With all the sorrow, with all the gaping holes in my heart, at least I can still smile," Al whispered in her heart. Even though she knew all too well that sometimes, that smile was forced.
She held Ahmad tightly, her eyes closed, as if this embrace could slightly ease the ache of missing Ahsan—if not completely, at least just a little.
The call to Asr prayer echoed, accompanying Al as she held her son in a sacred stillness. Not long after, her parents reached her side.
"Still have your wudhu?" her mother asked.
"Yes, Mom," Al replied with a small smile.
"Alright then, let's find a spot to pray," her father said, before heading off toward the men's section. Al and her mother walked together in search of an empty space.
"Mommy, I want to walk," Ahmad asked. Though only two and a half years old, he could already speak quite well. Al considered this one of Allah's blessings in the middle of her sea of grief.
She put Ahmad down and held his hand tightly amidst the crowd. This was her first Asr prayer at Masjid Nabawi. The spiritual atmosphere—something she had never felt before—moved her. The intense sense of faith from all the worshippers seemed contagious. Al's heart became deeply humble, aware of her position as a servant before her Creator. She felt a wave of surrender, but also great hope that her prayers would be answered in this holy place.
"O Lord, this tiny hand I'm holding belongs to an orphan. A child whom You've promised—whoever cares for him will be close to Your Messenger in Paradise."
Her eyes gazed at the green dome of Masjid Nabawi, where Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) rests.
"Dear Allah, I believe You will help me guide him. Make me worthy of this task, despite my flaws as a mother. O Lord, You've taken his father, so I believe You Yourself will take care of this child. Please guide him, bless him with Your mercy. Make him the best of Your servants—a righteous child for his father's and mother's legacy."
Her tears fell again, without her realizing it. She knew that the moment between adhan and iqamah was a precious time for prayer, even more so in this sacred place.
She gently caressed Ahmad's head as her heart rested fully in her prayer.
Unbeknownst to Al, her mother was also crying beside her. She didn't know the exact prayer in Al's heart, but she knew the pain her daughter carried. She knew Al was remembering Ahsan.
"O Allah, please grant my daughter, Zulfa Almadina, happiness in this world and the hereafter," her mother whispered repeatedly in her heart.
Al continued searching for a prayer row that would suit her and Ahmad—one at the edge, in case Ahmad started to wander off. As she walked, she tried to settle her heart.
People say time heals all wounds. But grief does not follow that rule.
Even though nearly a year had passed, the pain never lessened. In fact, the longing only grew deeper.
Grief, Al realized, doesn't disappear—it walks beside you your whole life.
You don't get over it.
You just get used to it.
Unfortunately, Al wasn't used to it yet.
And she didn't know when she ever would be.
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