a sun's sorrowful state
On January 2nd, I received a video chat from my sister. And when I saw her tear streaked face, my heart sank. And I waited for whatever news she bore, wincing and covering my mouth and my heart.
Fatima, my youngest sister, had burned her her right hand; from the fingers all the way up near her elbows. She was walking and had tripped and fallen hand first into a pot full with boiling grits. For anyone accustomed with the food, we all know it gets really sticky and hot. Just the thought of the pain she must have felt stabbed my heart. And I bled.
I called my father, my voice barely intact, breaking at every word. But I managed to tell him. And of course as a father, he tried his best to calm me, and asked for details.
When I asked her how bad it was, she said it was a 2nd degree.
I cried.
And I kept imagining that if I were there, maybe things would've turned out differently. But of course, it would not.
Maktuub, it was written.
The first night was filled with tosses and turns, internal bleeding that could be seen by none, outbreaks of tears and mood swings.
They told me her nerves are intact, that the damage could have been worse. I was told to dry my tears and be brave and thankful.
If it were a thorn, instead of a pot full of boiling grits, I would have cried the same.
For she is a part of me, my sister, and what pains her pains me- no matter the cause.
She is healing now, slowly recovering. She laughs more often and dances when I sing to her.
My sweet little sister - who had to endure such great pain after living only 2 years in this world. My sister whose cries tore at my heart. I know now that I cannot protect her from such things the Lord has decreed. But what a terrible loss we must feel as humans, when the Lord gifts us with beings from our very selves - beings we cannot protect from the cruelties life throws.
Today I stepped outside. It is the 10th of January. It's been 8 days. The sun shone down, but there was something different in its shine. It wasn't the kind I'd feel on summer days running the streets with my siblings.
No, it was quite different. And I do not know the cause; the fact that it is winter, or perhaps all the blood being spilled on Earth's surface, or the 3 month old baby that was reportedly tortured, or the cries of a 2 year old girl who had to witness the bitters of life a little too early.
Fatima, my youngest sister, had burned her her right hand; from the fingers all the way up near her elbows. She was walking and had tripped and fallen hand first into a pot full with boiling grits. For anyone accustomed with the food, we all know it gets really sticky and hot. Just the thought of the pain she must have felt stabbed my heart. And I bled.
I called my father, my voice barely intact, breaking at every word. But I managed to tell him. And of course as a father, he tried his best to calm me, and asked for details.
When I asked her how bad it was, she said it was a 2nd degree.
I cried.
And I kept imagining that if I were there, maybe things would've turned out differently. But of course, it would not.
Maktuub, it was written.
The first night was filled with tosses and turns, internal bleeding that could be seen by none, outbreaks of tears and mood swings.
They told me her nerves are intact, that the damage could have been worse. I was told to dry my tears and be brave and thankful.
If it were a thorn, instead of a pot full of boiling grits, I would have cried the same.
For she is a part of me, my sister, and what pains her pains me- no matter the cause.
She is healing now, slowly recovering. She laughs more often and dances when I sing to her.
My sweet little sister - who had to endure such great pain after living only 2 years in this world. My sister whose cries tore at my heart. I know now that I cannot protect her from such things the Lord has decreed. But what a terrible loss we must feel as humans, when the Lord gifts us with beings from our very selves - beings we cannot protect from the cruelties life throws.
Today I stepped outside. It is the 10th of January. It's been 8 days. The sun shone down, but there was something different in its shine. It wasn't the kind I'd feel on summer days running the streets with my siblings.
No, it was quite different. And I do not know the cause; the fact that it is winter, or perhaps all the blood being spilled on Earth's surface, or the 3 month old baby that was reportedly tortured, or the cries of a 2 year old girl who had to witness the bitters of life a little too early.
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