____ is getting ready for school in the morning. It is as any other ordinary day, he’s battling against the clock and his mother stressing as he is running late.
His breakfast is waiting for him downstairs. His mother shouts to him to come down, he yells back he can’t find his socks. She goes up and finds them and hurriedly gets them to him.
____ finally manages to get ready and downstairs. He finishes breakfast and pecks his mother on the cheek; she ushers him outside the door to catch the bus.
Just another routine day. Yet in every seemingly trivial, routine detail, is a retrospective nightmare, a detailed forensic narrative.
Now what ____ wore, what was said, what was eaten has to have some meaning behind it…some reassurance, some mistake, some hope…somewhere, something.
Because, for no reason, for no crime, a bomb detonates on the bus. Or, a missile lands. Or, a gunshot is fired. Broken pieces reemerge in a jigsaw that for a long time was thought to follow some sort of rules, or laws.
Again. But the abstract only becomes reality when the bus stop moves close to your home, and the absent name becomes one of your own.
إنا لله و إنا إليه راجعون