Cold Feet

All day my feet were dead cold.

It was the day my grandfather passed away. The one where I was woken up to be given this news.

I couldn’t believe he was gone.

I went to his place. I spent the entire day there. I saw him sleeping the eternal sleep, wrapped up in white sheets, back from the hospital.

I listened to my grandmother lamenting that he had left her all alone. I heard everyone exclaim how he had been just fine; two weeks, last night, an hour ago. They bathed him and wrapped him. He looked serene and beautiful as always. But unlike always, he wouldn’t say anything.

All I could do was stare at him from the corner of my eye, while reading the Arabic prayer from the piece of paper in my hand.

Near evening, when they took him to his final resting place, I hugged my mom, my aunt, my sister – told them it’d be okay. Hugged a lot of other ladies; heard them tell me it’d be okay.

I still couldn’t believe he was gone.

And all day, my feet were dead cold. Just like his.

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