Love is my mother knowing exactly
which sized bowl the leftover
dinner daar will fit into.

Love is my father getting upset if I
pray fajr without him because he
wanted to pray behind me.

Love is my sister letting me borrow
her shoes and rings, even though
I sometimes lose her things—
lucky for me, she often forgets.

Love is my brother driving me around
and being my babysitter even though
he doesn't get paid—I mean, he's really

just paying his dues to me for having had
the honour of getting tochange my diapers.

Love is my Baji pohwar-ing me for hours
on end when I couldn't sleep from all the scratching—thank God he

hasn't needed to for a few summers now,
but he would again if he needed to.

Love is my Maa making me paaper no aato
and toasting up buttered Uzbek bread
I brought back home to show her and Gori.

Love is my Sheikh calling me "sheikhana"
when I meet him at the masjid and him
saving my number with the same name.

Love is God saying He created mercy and
split it into a hundred pieces, keeping all but
one for Himself for the day He judges us.

Love is me telling me when I fail myself
miserably, "You messed up, but God's
too Gracious for you to give up, so go
ask for pardon and try again tomorrow."

Love is there everywhere,
just stop a moment and
take a look for it.



© Walyullah