To wake up in the morning, to wake up with full control over our mental and physical faculties, is a blessing that we take for granted. Waking up in itself is a blessing and a miracle. One does not need to be religious to appreciate this. In Islam, sleep is considered a minor death. That is why when we wake up, Muslims are encouraged to recite a short prayer as a form of gratefulness for another day, another chance.
It is ironic that it is in death that I seem to be more acutely aware of the daily miracles that occur in life. My senses are heightened to the smell of the fresh soil of the grave, the sound of irrepressible sobs and murmured prayers, the sight of white and black and the shape of a body (a body, no longer a person), the touch of an uncharacteristic embrace shared between a niece and her mournful yet stoic aunt. Though grief surrounds me, the very fact that I can feel reminds me that I am alive and well and present. For that, I am grateful.
We mourn and we move on. Til the next death.
My OldMan emphasized that he wished for a quick and fuss-free funeral when his time comes. My brother thanks him in advance for the opportunity to take compassionate leave. My OldMan claps in joy for my brother.
Such a casual conversation may sound morbid to others. But for us, we believe that death isn't the final end. We rejoice in having made the best out of our lives together, and we hope for a joyous reunion in the Hereafter.
Death is not a destination. At least to me, it isn't.
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