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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.

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