To Yazan with Love

The waning moon of Ramadan casts feeble shadows of gray over my weary mind. Dreadfully sinister clouds carried summons of bereavement from the south. A dear friend to us all by the name of Yazan is orphaned in a millisecond, a painfully slow stretch of time long enough to orchestrate a fatal car crash. Such a thin line between life and death, such a sobering truth. So humbling, so immense, so total, so final. Yet life goes on without mercy on the surface, perhaps by divine intervention underneath. Although we never forget, we plod along, looking back over our shoulder, every few steps at first and then less frequently until we pass beyond a ridge where we can’t see behind even if wanted to. We hasten our pace, roll up the collar around the neck and move forward in the gathering cold of an approaching night.
The same evening that witnessed a young man’s confrontation with death brought happier tidings to another young soul, a woman waiting for her fiancé to return so that they can get married when Ramadan is over. They embraced and hugged, wiping the deprivation of being apart for 2 years, licking each other’s tears, savoring each other’s lips, sniffing and smelling, not letting go. They will grieve one day and Yazan will be happy again.
I have marked the passage of time with ensuing Ramadans and today I am one year older. I count my blessings while I have them. I lick my wounds while they still hurt. This last month has been a fast cinematic clip, as good times and bad ones flashed randomly in front of my eyes. I fell sick then recovered. I struggled with the burdens of day to day existence. I laughed and cried. I stood again defiantly. I learned waterskiing and sat alone in the dark of night with a cigarette and a box of memories. I played with my children and through misty eyes saw my Diana leave home to college. I waved goodbye to someone I will probably not see in years and welcomed my father returning from across the ocean. I celebrated with a friend the birth of a first child and hunched my back in submission to death. This newest rendition of Ramadan had it all, a full cast of characters, of threads, of plots within plots, weaving and building up toward a crescendo of a divine comedy with tragic connotations.
Were it not for our memories we would seize to exist. There’s little left of us if we didn’t recall. Where’s me of last year? Where’s Yazan’s unruly hair? The cracking sounds of burning firewood, the echo of our spoken words reverberate in his mind and mine.
While you’re mourning Yazan you will find comfort in your friends around you. They all love you and would do their utmost to ease your pain. Eventually though, you’re going to be alone. You will come face to face with a subconscious force coercing you to keep it all bottled up inside. Don’t give in my friend, let go and cry. Cry till you run dry. Then look back over your shoulder and remember your father and mother as they would’ve liked you to remember them. Fear nothing as what becomes of us is inevitable. We know the end but the timing always takes us by surprise. There will be more grief, there will be more joy. This is only a beginning for you among many to follow. Keep smiling from the heart and always remember.