Hey Dad
On legacy, the transition of burdens, and learning how to find a cooling time.
Been a while. I know.
Before I say anything else, a young man is standing not too far from me. Close enough that I can see him. Far enough that he cannot make out what I am saying. He is standing in front of a grave. Not a fresh one. He has been there a few minutes already, and he has not said a word. Not one. But every few minutes, his shoulders move in a way that tells you everything. I already have a full profile on him. You know how I am.
I am going to speak to you out loud today. I know, I know. Me. Out loud. In a place like this. For someone who would rather disappear into the wall at any social gathering, this is basically throwing myself off a building. I will probably sweat about this for days, wondering if anyone heard me, wondering what they thought. So. Here we are.
Alhamdulillah, Dad. I am fine. I genuinely am. Tough circumstances, you know, life here, it was never explainable to people who did not live it. It never made sense from the outside. But I am fine. I left that dream job I told you about last time, and moved on. It was important for me and that job to move on away from each other at that stage. A milestone to learn from. A story for later. I moved on to something ten times bigger, ten times more complicated, and ten times more expensive to run. Am I bored? You have no idea. It numbs you. But you know me, the numbness always becomes a trigger. I just got an idea for a personal project, actually, standing right here. Anyway. It is decent work, and I want to do a decent job, and I am good at it.
The girls are all grown up now. Man, you would have loved them. Spoiled them rotten and made my job considerably harder than it already is, raising two strong, smart, opinionated women. I think they would have adored you. Your stories. Your patience to sit and listen after a long day, your calm. All they have are the stories I tell about you, and I will say this: you are a hero in every single one of them, that part I never had to exaggerate.
I am still married to that wonderful woman, you know. Still love her the same way I loved her back then. You knew she was the one when you met her. You said as much. Well, you were right. Sorry to break it to you, but in this partnership, she is the better half. I would have done a horrendous job raising those girls without her. Alhamdulillah, that is a mercy I do not take lightly. فضل من الله ونعمة. Or else you would have heard about me over the news.
Mom is well. Don’t worry. We have her. She is sick and tired, but you know her. She still thinks she is made of kryptonite. She soldiered through her episodes the way she soldiers through everything. My young brothers are all fine. We have each other’s backs when the time comes. The middle one, well, a middle child. He is living with her now, and he is taking a break from being in trouble. I still can’t comprehend what you had to go through getting him from one problem to another. I hate that it was the last thing you had to do. The youngest, your spoiled one, is all grown now, and his son is becoming a young man. He is married to a wonderful woman as well. She spoils him too, it comes as a package, I guess. He has the health record of a seventy-year-old, I kid you not. I would need a full hour just for the updates.
I should tell you something I do not usually say out loud.
I am tired, Dad. Not physically. It is the other kind. The kind where the burden does not go away, it just switches shoulders. I know I can carry it, إن شاء الله.
إِنَّ اللَّهَ لَا يُكَلِّفُ نَفْسًا إِلَّا وُسْعَهَا
“Allah does not burden a soul beyond that it can bear.” (Surah Al-Baqarah, 2:286)
إن الله الذي كلَّف أعان - وإذا وضعك في طريقٍ ظننته فوق طاقتك
I know this. Not as a saying. As Yaqeen.
You never let me say I was tired. I don’t remember you ever saying that yourself. I know you did not mean harm by that. You were teaching me something about endurance. But Dad, I wish you had also taught yourself that. Nothing is built to last without a cooling time. Not even you. Not even me.
I am learning to say no now. No to myself. No to others. It is slow and uncomfortable, and I am still not good at it. But I am trying.
Oh, massive update, statistically, I am better than you at fixing things around the house. I want that on record. You can ask Mom for a partial confirmation. I still find plumbing deeply annoying, that part you can keep.
Now to the big one. The most important question I would assume you would ask from where you are:
كيف حالك مع ربك؟
I am always trying to fix my relationship with Allah. Every day. Some days are better than others. And I think about the dirt, Dad. I think about my turn. I stand here, and I see it clearly in a way I cannot see it anywhere else. I do not know when or how. But I know it is coming, and I want to be building something worth anything before that day arrives. I am trying. That is all I can tell you.
It has been thirty-five minutes. My brother said he would be here half an hour ago. My car is at the mechanic because the AC is broken, and the heat is coming on, and you already know that my patience and maturity drop by half the moment I start sweating profusely.
That young man left a few minutes ago.
I hope he heard me. I hope I embarrassed myself enough to be useful to him. I hope you understood what I was trying to do. I hope you know that I was him, fifteen years ago, standing just a few graves to the left.
I love you. I miss you, good man. You are in my prayers. Every day. Every prayer.
اللهم اغفر لي ولوالدي وارحمهما كما ربياني صغيرا
Keep creating
Thanks for reading Within the Margin of Error! I truly appreciate you taking the time to read my words. I hope I was able to bring you some value in exchange.