I’ve wanted to write this since the first day.

The funeral is over. You died on Saturday night, in your sleep, after lunch. I only found out on Sunday morning and everything after that was just a blur of black shrouds.

Where do I start? Your daughters are devastated. They keep remembering you, remembering their last moments with you and how much they wanted more, more, more.  Some are handling it better than others, but I look at them, and I just see five women who are absolutely inconsolable. All I did was listen to them.

Your sisters, too, are handling grief differently, but they miss you.

Your brothers are being strong. My sister said my dad cried. I think about that everyday. I think about what he said when he cried, sitting alone in his room, and my sister walked in and found him staring ahead before acknowledging that you, his older brother, were gone.

Your granddaughter remembered when you were sitting across from her a month ago, just where she’s sitting accepting condolences from family and strangers, and just started crying.

There’s a change in my brothers, like a certain emptiness that I haven’t seen before. And your son… I can barely look at him sometimes.

Your daughter-in-law doesn’t know what to do whenever she’s home, because you’re not home.

And so many people showed up, and no one knows what to say. No one. I’ve given long hugs, and recieved more hugs from people who looked at me with sympathy. All I kept thinking was, “I know you’re here for me, but I’m here for my family.”

There are waves of joy that come. In the period between the morning funeral and the afternoon funeral, I’ve laughed until I couldn’t breathe. People cracked jokes, then cried, then cracked more jokes.

What about me?

Well, I think back to that day we visited one of your sisters in the hospital, and when I kissed your head, you kept asking me, “Where are you? We barely see you!” and I laughed it off because at that time I didn’t want to spend time with my family, I just wanted time for me and my friends. And then before I left, you said, “Don’t be a stranger.”

And then I think back to the last day I saw you alive. We were by the beach, and my mom and dad spent so much time talking with you into the night. Before I left, I realized I forgot my headphones. I ran back inside and asked everyone around if they have it. Turns out, it was next to you. You gave it to me with fake exasperation like of course this child leaves her things behind. And the last thing your sister said was “You were destined to be the one to find it.” The last thing I heard was a laugh before I ran outside again.

I’m sorry I was not around. I’ll try to do better with your daughters.

I know Eid will be so different this year without you being the first one to arrive in the morning.

We love you. We’ll miss you.

الله يرحمك يا عمي ناصر