Letter 1: It's been 42 days.

Dear Nana, 

It's been 42 days since you left. And I'm not counting, I really am not. Mama's counting. The days, her breath, the ticking of the clock. Your wheelchair is tucked into a corner in Naasith's room, dismantled like we did that one time we took you out. It's covered in a yellow shawl because mama cries every time she sees it. Your air-bed is still in the cupboard, still a messy heap from me throwing it in, on the night you passed. Your clothes are still in your drawers and cupboards; we don't have the heart to do anything with them. Mama says we should donate the good ones, the new ones. Sometimes mama takes out a t-shirt or two and sits on our bed and I know she's thinking of all the times she changed your clothes and how you would never fuss. You were always so patient, even when you were hurting. Especially when you were hurting. 

We hold dhikr meetings whenever we can, over zoom because curfew's still a thing. Almost everyone in the family joins in. You would have loved that, I know. Sometimes I wonder if we should have done something like that when you were with us but we're always two steps late; aren't we? I tried listening to Surah Rahman the other day, I cried myself to sleep. I can't help but remember all the times when we'd play it and you'd ask me about Jannah. I keep trying to recall the last proper conversation we had and I only remember pieces of it but that's okay because at least I remember. You asked me about how certain I was about the things I told you, about the things we'd both learnt and I told you that's where trust comes in. We trust Him, with everything. You asked me a question that night, about the grave and its darkness. I wish I could have told you more but I told you about the Quran. I told you about the light it will provide you with and I told you about the comfort it will bring and you told me you knew, you just wasn't as sure as you used to be and I told you that was okay. That night I had more courage than I do now and I wonder if it was because you were with me and my courage has always come from you. 

I remember what you were wearing in the morning when you left for your last dialysis. The blue t-shirt we got you for Eid last year. I remember your eyes clouded by misty white and your voice, hoarse when you said your farewells. I remember I asked you how you were, your reply was 'Wa alaikum Salam, I'll be back'. I remember when mama tried to put the mask on you and it slid off and we laughed because you had become so tiny even the mask didn't fit. We spoke of getting you new sandals because your old ones were wearing out. (Mama threw them away the day after the funeral). Dada's praying now. I know you would have been the happiest to know.

 I know you can't see this and I know you never will so maybe this is more for me than for you. No one's seen you in their dreams. The grown ups think you should visit. I don't really believe in that but I wouldn't mind seeing you. Mama says at night she tries to remember the better times but all she recalls is your last moments, your last words. She repeats them like a mantra. But don't worry. I'm here for her, like you asked me to be. And I know you know I'll keep your promise. I know you're well. I know where you are right now is where you belong, that you are so much happier than you were when you were here. But am I selfish to want to be beside you? I can't say I was extremely kind to you. We were siblings, true to every word. Every argument, every hiss of disapproval, everything was real with you. You didn't know but I liked to think of people as lights, as lanterns to lead us and you were my brightest light. I miss you. It's been 42 days. I love you. Please remember me when we meet again. And tell me you love me too. 

Always, 

Nangi. 

P.s. I don't ever recall you saying my name and I don't know why that is but you've always been my nana and I've always been your nangi and even if the worlds keep us apart right now, you're always right where you used to be.

Dua for the deceased : 

اللهُـمِّ اغْفِـرْ لَهُ وَارْحَمْـه ، وَعافِهِ وَاعْفُ عَنْـه ، وَأَكْـرِمْ نُزُلَـه ، وَوَسِّـعْ مُدْخَـلَه ، وَاغْسِلْـهُ بِالْمـاءِ وَالثَّـلْجِ وَالْبَـرَدْ ، وَنَقِّـهِ مِنَ الْخطـايا كَما نَـقّيْتَ الـثَّوْبُ الأَبْيَـضُ مِنَ الدَّنَـسْ ، وَأَبْـدِلْهُ داراً خَـيْراً مِنْ دارِه ، وَأَهْلاً خَـيْراً مِنْ أَهْلِـه ، وَزَوْجَـاً خَـيْراً مِنْ زَوْجِه، وَأَدْخِـلْهُ الْجَـنَّة ، وَأَعِـذْهُ مِنْ عَذابِ القَـبْر وَعَذابِ النّـار

'O Allah, forgive him and have mercy on him and give him strength and pardon him. Be generous to him and cause his entrance to be wide and wash him with water and snow and hail. Cleanse him of his transgressions as white cloth is cleansed of stains. Give him an abode better than his home, and a family better than his family and a wife better than his wife. Take him into Paradise and protect him from the punishment of the grave [and from the punishment of Hell-fire].'