my father’s cracked feet

shuffle across the kitchen floor.

after fajr prayers, he retreats

into his room. he recites a surah

until the skies grew lighter.

it’s been almost two months.

his bicycle in the balcony

has been collecting dust. some days

he lies on his bed, restless.

“bapak rindu tak, dah lama

tak pergi masjid?” he shook

his head. resigned.

my father lamented

when the announcement was made:

mosques will still close for eid.

i wish some voices could go softer.

the world is hard

as it already is. every day,

his feet, aging like weathered leather,

would pace their steps

to his second home. his latest

DIY project; sewing a layer of foam

to his prayer mat because his feet

had been away from the thick

carpets in the prayer hall.

we performed the final tarawih

prayer in the living room.

i just learnt that angels

the size of mountains

are with us when we pray.

the days have been a blur

of weekends and weekdays.

then came the subdued skies,

the final rays of sunlight. we recite

the takbir. victory and glory

tinged with melancholy.

in the morning,

i let him see his grandchildren,

their tiny feet, their antics,

through the screen. their bright smiles,

and the lampu lap lip we switched on

since the start of Ramadan

will warm the nights

for now.



2 thoughts on “Footsteps

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