Issue 31: The corner window

Dearest reader,

I trust this letter reaches you as it leaves me, in good health. When I was a child my father used to take me to the mosque each week for Friday prayers. I never wanted to go. We drove in his silver Land Cruiser and I looked out the window. It was usually hot outside and we put the windows down. It was a model from before 2000 I’m pretty sure. It had a cassette player and we eventually figured out how to play music from our iPods. He used to play Bob Dylan and Neil Young. I played stuff I kind of liked and thought he might like a little bit. If I played what I really liked he’d say turn it off. Our weekends were Thursday and Friday and Thursday I had the sheikh and Friday we had sallah. I didn’t understand why I had to be with God so much. Wednesday night I sometimes got away. One hour is enough, my mom always used to say. What are you going to do with more than one hour? Whenever the phone rang I got nervous—I had to answer it first before anyone else knew it had rang. I’d steal the cordless phone from my parents room. Being asked who called was a question I didn’t know how to answer. I couldn’t answer it because I don’t think I ever quite figured out how to lie. I guess I tried, but they could tell and I fumbled most of the time. I sometimes wonder what we talked about on the dinner table. I know we used to eat together and I can sometimes recall vague vignettes of my mom bringing curry dishes out of the kitchen. I can even remember how good they used to smell, and now I guess I can kind of remember the rice, too. But the conversations—it’s hard for me to even be sure there even were any. And if there were, what were they about? Maybe I’ll remember tonight when I dream. I usually remember things when I dream. I guess I’m grateful Dad used to take me to the mosque. And I guess I’m grateful Mom made me sit with the sheikh. And I guess maybe one day I’ll figure out what I’m going to do with more than one hour.

Love,
Reef