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A Mother's Plea: The Diary of Sukki
"There comes a Time
When we Heed a Certain Call,
When the World must Come
Together as One."
Michael Jackson
Lionel Richie
📓
A #WRITCO Tragedy
🌈 📖
NIKKO'S
SONG
🪦 💐
Day 1:
In the quiet solace of my Bronx abode, I sit with my diary, the ink whispering secrets of a love that knows no bounds. My heart is heavy, yet my spirit is unyielding. For I am a mother, a beacon of light for my son, Nikko. His eyes, once a sparkling river of life, now mirror the dark abyss of his soul's tumult. "The purest love is that of a mother for her child," a wise Indian author once penned, and it is this truth that fuels my every breath.
Nikko was not always like this. Once, his laughter danced through our small house like the sweet melody of an azaan echoing in the mosque. His eyes gleamed with intelligence and hope, a reflection of the world's beauty that I had so meticulously crafted for him. He was a star pupil, a soccer prodigy, and a kind soul who touched the hearts of all who knew him. But life's cruel hand painted a shadow over his youth, a shadow named depression. It crept into our lives like a thief in the night, stealing the vibrant colors of joy and replacing them with a palette of despair.
As I flip through the yellowed pages of our shared history, I am met with a stark reminder of his first attempt. The knife lay discarded, a silent sentinel to his inner turmoil. I had found him, sobbing in the kitchen, the blade trembling in his hand. "Why, Allah?" I had asked, my voice cracking like a brittle twig under the weight of my fear. Yet, even in the throes of such a dark night, I felt the warm embrace of the divine, a gentle whisper that assured me that Nikko had a greater purpose.
Day 2:
Today, as I juggle my two jobs to keep food on our table and a roof over our heads, I am reminded of the resilience of a mother's love. It is a love that transcends the confines of this mortal coil, a love that is as boundless as the skies above. The Qur'an speaks of such love, "And We have enjoined upon man, to his parents, good treatment. His mother carried him with hardship and gave birth to him with hardship, and his gestation and weaning [period] is thirty months..." (Surah Al-Ahqaf: 15). Indeed, I have carried Nikko through his hardships, both physical and emotional, with the unwavering belief that he is a testament to Allah's mercy.
The air outside is thick with the scent of rain, a scent that once brought comfort to Nikko's troubled spirit. Now, it is tainted with the acrid stench of the streets, a reminder of the poisons he has sought refuge in. The drugs, the alcohol – they are his demons, whispering sweet nothings that only serve to amplify the screams within his mind. Yet, amidst the chaos, I find moments of peace, moments where his true self shines through like a beam of sunlight piercing the dark clouds.
Day 3:
"What is the value of a mother's love?" I muse as I sit, weary, in the dimly lit room. The words of an old Indian proverb dance in my thoughts: "A mother's love is like a river, it goes on forever." How I wish I could bottle this love and give it to Nikko, to show him the strength that lies within him. Perhaps then, he would realize that life's trials are but stepping stones to greater heights.
My son's room is a shrine to his painstakingly constructed façade. Trophies from soccer matches gather dust next to empty bottles and discarded needles. It is a battlefield, a silent war between...
When we Heed a Certain Call,
When the World must Come
Together as One."
Michael Jackson
Lionel Richie
📓
A #WRITCO Tragedy
🌈 📖
NIKKO'S
SONG
🪦 💐
Day 1:
In the quiet solace of my Bronx abode, I sit with my diary, the ink whispering secrets of a love that knows no bounds. My heart is heavy, yet my spirit is unyielding. For I am a mother, a beacon of light for my son, Nikko. His eyes, once a sparkling river of life, now mirror the dark abyss of his soul's tumult. "The purest love is that of a mother for her child," a wise Indian author once penned, and it is this truth that fuels my every breath.
Nikko was not always like this. Once, his laughter danced through our small house like the sweet melody of an azaan echoing in the mosque. His eyes gleamed with intelligence and hope, a reflection of the world's beauty that I had so meticulously crafted for him. He was a star pupil, a soccer prodigy, and a kind soul who touched the hearts of all who knew him. But life's cruel hand painted a shadow over his youth, a shadow named depression. It crept into our lives like a thief in the night, stealing the vibrant colors of joy and replacing them with a palette of despair.
As I flip through the yellowed pages of our shared history, I am met with a stark reminder of his first attempt. The knife lay discarded, a silent sentinel to his inner turmoil. I had found him, sobbing in the kitchen, the blade trembling in his hand. "Why, Allah?" I had asked, my voice cracking like a brittle twig under the weight of my fear. Yet, even in the throes of such a dark night, I felt the warm embrace of the divine, a gentle whisper that assured me that Nikko had a greater purpose.
Day 2:
Today, as I juggle my two jobs to keep food on our table and a roof over our heads, I am reminded of the resilience of a mother's love. It is a love that transcends the confines of this mortal coil, a love that is as boundless as the skies above. The Qur'an speaks of such love, "And We have enjoined upon man, to his parents, good treatment. His mother carried him with hardship and gave birth to him with hardship, and his gestation and weaning [period] is thirty months..." (Surah Al-Ahqaf: 15). Indeed, I have carried Nikko through his hardships, both physical and emotional, with the unwavering belief that he is a testament to Allah's mercy.
The air outside is thick with the scent of rain, a scent that once brought comfort to Nikko's troubled spirit. Now, it is tainted with the acrid stench of the streets, a reminder of the poisons he has sought refuge in. The drugs, the alcohol – they are his demons, whispering sweet nothings that only serve to amplify the screams within his mind. Yet, amidst the chaos, I find moments of peace, moments where his true self shines through like a beam of sunlight piercing the dark clouds.
Day 3:
"What is the value of a mother's love?" I muse as I sit, weary, in the dimly lit room. The words of an old Indian proverb dance in my thoughts: "A mother's love is like a river, it goes on forever." How I wish I could bottle this love and give it to Nikko, to show him the strength that lies within him. Perhaps then, he would realize that life's trials are but stepping stones to greater heights.
My son's room is a shrine to his painstakingly constructed façade. Trophies from soccer matches gather dust next to empty bottles and discarded needles. It is a battlefield, a silent war between...
