Familiarity
There is this sense of familiarity that I long for. I was wandering around in a bookstore one warm morning in June when a book caught my eyes: a graphic novel with Arabic calligraphy on its cover. I held the book in my hands like a mother holds her newborn — gently yet with the intention of never letting go. I flipped through the pages to find more calligraphy. I felt something in my heart, something I usually feel in my friend’s kitchen where we all sit crammed up even though there’s plenty room outside. I don’t know what that feeling is but I do know that I want to feel it more often. I want to feel it in written word. I want to feel it in a song my mother used to hum as she made chai every morning. I want to feel it in the sound of adhan echoing through the neighborhood at a Ramadan sunset. I want to feel it in a hug — his hug. His laugh. His warm brown skin against my trembling fingers. I want to feel home.
