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Pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter.
How unlucky, Alicia... Rain on your birthday!
Good thing I have an umbrella.
Sigh...
I remember one time when you and I looked up our birthdays, July 31st and April 8th respectively.
"M-Michael Jackson?!" I recall yelping at the computer screen upon reading the name. "Y-you were born the same day as the King of Pop?!" I grinned in awe.
"Idiot..." you told me. "The 'King of Pop' is Michael Joseph Jackson." You pointed at the screen. "This Michael Jackson that shares my birthday is a basketball player," you clarified.
"That's confusing..." I groaned plainly. "Maybe you could be a basketball player!" I joked. "What does mine say?"
"Gimme a sec," you groaned back, typing up April 8 on Wikipedia. Guessing you weren't too keen on your basketball player future. "Apparently you share a birthday with a 'Forrest Frank.'"
I tilted my head, intrigued. "Who's that?"
"Some Texan Christian music artist, apparently," you answered me, laughing a little. "Maybe you could be a Christian!"
Nothing wrong with Christians, just... wasn't my thing.
Not exactly related, but once I did my research (which is itself very surprising, I am not a very "researchy" person), and apparently some Christians forbid the celebration of birthdays—Jehovah's Witnesses specifically.
I look down at my gift, nestled in my arm under the umbrella, surrounding by pouring rain from all corners.
Good thing I'm not a Jehovah's Witness, I guess.
Neither are you, Alicia—or at least, I'm assuming not, anyway.
You partook in some of our Islamic celebrations, but you were more religiously unaffiliated, right? So was General Rama, I think.
Nothing wrong with that, of course. Just stating the facts.
While in that weird Jehovah's Witness research rabbit hole, I got curious and looked up how their funerals were. It seemed their funerals were just like any other. At least they had those.
In Islamic funerals, we perform Salat al-Janazah (or the Islamic funeral prayer). It is considered fardh, a religious duty, a collective obligation. I remember us doing that for Mom.
I also remember Dad telling me what he prayed silently.
رَبَّنَا آتِنَا فِي الدُّنْيَا حَسَنَةً وَفِي الْآخِرَةِ حَسَنَةً وَقِنَا عَذَابَ النَّارِ
(Rabbana atina fi-d-dunya hasanatan wa fi-l-akhirati hasanatan wa qina 'adhaba-n-nar)
Our Lord, give us in this world that which is good, and in the Hereafter that which is good, and protect us from the punishment of the Fire. (Al-Baqarah 2:201)
I wrestled with that a little.
"But Allah... she was the good in this world..." I remember asking Him. "Now I'm heartbroken. Now Dad's heartbroken. Why would You take her away?"
He didn't answer me, but I made peace with it.
Maybe that peace was His answer.
I sigh again.
I look at the flowers all around as I walk to your place.
Regarding flowers... I remember you always spent a little more time with the daisies than the others when we went to this one museum.
At the garden there, there were all sorts of rare flowers, of all colors, sizes, and scents.
Yet you stayed with the daisies.
"'Bellis perennis, also known as the daisy..." you read the information card nearby, focused. "...Often used as symbols of innocence and purity."
You always looked so cute when you were focused, you know that?
"'Because daisies can survive in a multitude of conditions and environments...'" you continued, smiling faintly, "'they are often seen as a symbol of life.'"
I didn't think you knew I was listening, but I smiled too. That sounded nice.
Kind of ironic now then, huh?
I put my gift on your grave: flowers.
Or to be more specific, daisies.
I hope you like them.
I hope He gives me peace with you too.
I know you're not exactly Muslim...
Despite this, even with my mouth, my body, my everything trembling...
It just came out of my mouth.
"Rabbana atina fi-d-dunya......"