Isra Cheema

i wake up but keep my eyes closed—i don’t want to see

our faces—the mirror is on my side of the bed and

a Qur’an on His.

i feel His arm around me—little spoon, big spoon—and

i gently move His arm and slide out of bed quietly

tiptoeing out of the room, careful not to make a sound—

He doesn’t like being woken up.

i start preparing breakfast for Him—for us—but less for me and

i hear Him slam open the bedroom door while i’m washing dishes and

He comes up behind me to hug me and kiss me good morning and

i wince at the soreness in my wrists from yesterday.

He asks if i want to pray together and

of course i do.

He heads to the bathroom to wash up while i keep breakfast warm and

bite my lip to keep the tears in my eyes and

clean up the kitchen because i made such a mess and

try to forget the night before and 

He’s ready to pray,

hair, face, beard dripping wet from making wudhu and

i wonder if His sins are really falling off with every water droplet

i pray they are not.