My chocolate colored coat smells of arabica coffee beans
and samples of perfume bottles I cannot afford yet
The linen doesn’t feel secure anymore
I am changing along with my wool fabric
This is womanhood, realizing the fickleness of life
It’s woven in this cloth
Nothing is constant, but the love of Allah
I feel it in these fragmented brown threads
I observed Ammi weep on her prayer mat,
how her tears made contact with the turquoise fabric of the musallah.
For her this prayer rug was her sanctuary
Allah was her protector.
She would always tell me to treat it with the utmost respect
To wrap it up with appreciation,
It became routine to be delicate with the janamaz and to fold it gently.
Not knowing the meaning of the Arabic verses,
Ammi persisted to pray and read the Qur’an.
As I continued to watch her make dua,
I saw her bleeding her traumas onto this prayer mat.
I long to be like Ammi.
To make my nafs as pure as hers.
To fall in love with her Beloved, my Beloved.