Last night, I dreamed of home.
Not just the walls or the door, but the way the light moved through the room when you opened the windows. The sound of Omar’s feet running across the courtyard. The weight of Noor’s tiny fingers brushing over my cheek like a falling petal.
In my dream, you were sitting on the kitchen floor, peeling pomegranates with a quiet joy. Noor was braiding threads into your scarf, her face close to yours, whispering secrets. And Omar was on my shoulders, holding a paper crown, declaring us a kingdom. A small, wonderful kingdom where everything smelled like cinnamon and safety.
The sky outside was gold.
The fig tree was heavy with fruit.
The cat had finally learned not to scratch the cushions.
And there, in the stillness of a moment I have not yet lived, I felt something I’ve been missing…
Peace.
Beloved,
Even here, in a world of dust and distance I find you in the smallest things.
In the way the sky turns indigo at night, just like the colour of your favorite dress.
In the quiet. Always in the quiet.
Do Omar and Noor still sleep with their feet tangled at the end of the bed?
Do they still ask you if I’ve found the moon yet?
Tell them yes! I found it in Noor’s smile, and Omar’s laughter, and in the way your voice reaches me, even from across the mountains.
And Noor…
Our Noor, the soft flame in the lamp of our days.
Does she still press her palms into flour when you bake, leaving tiny white handprints on your apron?
And you,
The morning of my soul.
The warmth in my winters.
Do you still leave a place for me at the table?
Do you still pour two cups of tea, just in case?
I remember your laugh, the one that made the walls forget they were made of stone.
The horse still remembers you.
He runs like he’s chasing the wind that once carried your scent.
He waits, like I do, for the star he was born to ride beside.
And even here, beneath skies that are not ours,
You are my home.