By: Ammar AlShukry
You’re the best person I’ve ever known, the best friend I’ve never met
Your sincerity to me is blinding enough to completely canvas the world around me
with drapes that read, respect, honor, focus, protect…
and leaving a window so that I can zoom in on the important things,
and yet those are the things that I forget, or neglect,
…I will do better.
Your Ummah is fine, not because of me or mine, or wounds that heal with time,
those who’d die for a dollar sign, but because of promises divine,
and so when we feel that we’re at our worst,
and our sadness would cause our hearts to burst,
it feels like there are times,
when there are angels within our lines.
Or maybe hovering over squares,
with chants of freedom in the air,
And though tyrants step on our necks
We smile…for history has always been on our side…
Yours is an Ummah that simply doesn’t die…
I’m sorry for my weakness.
For every time I’ve been ashamed of your name, and asked someone to call me Mo,
For not knowing enough about you to defend you when they drew cartoons, or accused you with
the most heinous of accusations…
For not getting over my distaste of reading and waiting for Hollywood to put you on the big
screen so I can know about you.
As if Steven Spielberg, Mel Gibson, and Johnny Depp could somehow recreate the twinkle in your eye, or a beautiful bead of sweat as it scaffolds on your forehead, frantically fighting gravity not wanting to fall off your body.
I keep thinking of seeing you, and wonder if you would smile at me…
the thought gives me goosebumps.
You told me to meet you at the pool, so on that day, I hope and pray
that I can see you through the crowd,
that no angels barricade me as I sprint at break neck speed,
I hope you recognize it’s me.
I will crowd the companions to get access to your vision.
I will obey my thirst and quench it from your hand, so until that day I will pray…
I will stand and I will pray,
as if my feet are holding the earth from splitting.
If I make it, I cry at the thought of seeing you.
For I know the words that I used to read out of all too thin pages,
will do no justice, to your face, your scent, your touch, your voice.
My Messenger of Allah has always existed between the curves and dots of the Arabic alphabet, So Muhammad ibn Abdillah in 3D and whatever other dimensions the hereafter brings with it, will be an overboard of senses.
I will fall in love with your shadow,
and will tell Ali that his description did not do justice,
and tell my mother Aisha, that we heard her story of how you passed away between her chin and her chest,
over and over and over again,
and it made us cry every single time.
For there was no disaster that we suffered more
than what we suffered before our souls merged with flesh,
of entering an Earth that was without you,
Does the sky even recognize us anymore…
And I will sit in the shade of your smile,
and ask you your story directly from your mouth,
as we sip from Salsabil, ice cold,
and would be deeply embarrassed if you asked me for mine,
Cuz I never did anything right, other than loving you
and then…if you let me, I would love…
for a hug.