She turns on the water-
First too hot. too cold. good and warm.
She washes her worn hands at the kitchen sink.
The dirt of the day, down the drain.
Her hands tremble momentarily.
But she knows what stills them.
She’s tired.
Her hands soiled with the blood of a boy.
Her spirit sullied watching his soul breathe out of his little body.
She’s tired.
She tried to save his life.
But He died.
She thinks of his dark brown eyes.
Full of life. Then, not.
The water washes over her hands.
Violent water rushing out over her aches.
The only massage she’ll get.
She has running water, still. That’s a blessing. She thinks.
She passes her hands, one over the other.
Sudsy. Lathering.
More soap.
The blood stains around her fingernails are stubborn.
The little boy.
The blood.
All curly hair. Big ears. Small nose. Sweet lips. Missing teeth.
The blood.
Hasbi Allah wa ni’malwakeel.
Over and over and over.
She repeats it.
It’s all that stills the tremble in her hands.
The tremble in her throat when he tells his mother that there was nothing more she could do.
Over and over.
The tightness in her heart.
The fullness in her throat.
She cleans each hand, methodically.
Under this fingernail. Then the next.
Ah. This is why Muhammad ordered them to have short nails.
Because her people would be persecuted.
They would bleed.
And blood stains.
The boy.
Hands clean now. She starts to scrub the sink.
One more time with the soap and her hands.
How many more nights like this.
How much more caked on blood
blood stained hands
hands that tremble,
she wonders.
She turns the water off.
______
I’ve stopped posting things. Imam Suhaib wanted to read a poem on Syria so I thought to post it. Pray for Syria. Pray for the hurt and the hurting. Pray for health and healing. Pray for progress and peace. Pray for freedom and fortitude. Pray for courage and commitment and conviction. Pray for prayer. Pray that God accepts it all in His name, for His sake, in His way and on the path to Him. Shahada.
