Eid

She remembers the first Eid without him.

It was dull. It was fun but it was dark. The whole day seems like an operation of trying to make things as usual, a day of overwhelming gentleness and kindness. Every movement felt like a routine, rather than a festive day for one to enjoy.

It was weird to no longer have an extra baju melayu to straighten that morning. It was awkward to drive to the mosque with three people rather than four, and it was bizarre to not have an extra plate on the table during breakfast.

It takes several years to get used to it. To get used to the hollowness of his absence. It gets better every year, and by better, it refers to ignoring the hollowness.

Last time was different.

She remembered the last time. That morning, she woke up, and for some reason, her senses felt more alive that day.

The faint takbir from the window, the water drizzling in the shower, the stove hissing in the kitchen, the plates clacking at the table, the iron hissing on the garments, the juices burbling into the cups, the festive melody from the radio, the utensils clinking to the dishes, the subtle chatters over the couch, the joyful cheers in the television, the loud banter from the garden, the funny laughter from the coffee table, the rustling notes into the envelope, the bag zipping in the corner, the giddy chuckles near the table, the quiet sniffles before the salam…and of course, the engaging presence of love.

It felt familiar…again. Overwhelming but familiar.

She noticed that the hollowness of his absence was still there, but it was no longer a dark looming presence. It was brighter now.

She assumed this time shall not be any different.

Perhaps, it will get brighter now.

And perhaps, she will feel alive again.