Precious Tears

The screen in front of me engulfs my vision whole. It’s all I see. My head spins as my eyes dart from email to email. I push through despite the splitting headache. The work was due today, the dreaded report. 

I hear clicking other than my keyboard, and I can tell it’s my sleepy wife slowly opening the door so as not to disturb me. Sometimes, her gestures full of care bring me more headaches. Recalling how I hadn’t been there for her all this while at work, and now even at home I have to fulfil these official duties. 

She’s brought a blanket with her. “Khalid, can I nap on you?” she asks, her voice low yet mischievous as always. Without waiting for my answer, she slips under my arm and makes herself comfortable on my lap, resting her head on my shoulder. I take responsibility for the blanket and drape it around us. I just sigh, taking my glasses off to observe her peaceful expression because she got what she wanted. And I smile – she always appears when I need her most.

I feel the headache dissipate with each moment her warmth is shared with mine. I continue typing the report with one hand, the other holding her steady against me. Every jab of the keyboard is softer than before she entered. “Wouldn’t the typing disturb you?” I ask, my voice hoarse from being silent for a long time.

“It’s rather calming, you know,” she smiled, slowly opening her eyes for a moment, before closing them again. I couldn’t argue with her. I knew it. Why did I even try?

The night ends with me carrying her sleep-ridden self back into our room, placing her gently on the mattress and tucking her in. Even in sleep, she sought me, and found her place in my arms. I found it extremely endearing.

My vision is familiar with being limited to a screen, so often, that I forget there is indeed a world beyond work, and emails, and reports. My eyes hurt from staring at white documents for a long time. I close my eyes. And open them when I hear clicking other than my keyboard. I can tell it’s her with her light steps, cautiously entering the room with her blanket trailing behind her. Times like this I’m reminded again of the tragedy of being unable to be by her side when that’s all I ever wanted but must serve the economy as a worker so that I earn enough for the both of us. I imagine her mother being very disappointed in me for leaving her daughter for even a second, ready to scold me and tell me to at least put her to sleep.

“Baba, can I nap on you?” she asks, even though she’s already climbed me and made herself comfortable on my lap. Her small head resting on my chest. I took responsibility of her small blanket, draping it over us.

I took off my glasses, placing them on the table before me to take a good look at my daughter. She’s got her mother’s mischievous smile, and the attitude that she can get away with anything. Which she does. And I’m sometimes afraid I may be spoiling her too much. Then I see her smile, and I forget my worries.

“Wouldn’t the typing disturb you?” I ask, and she opens her eyes, frowning at me for even thinking of such a stupid question. 

“I sleep better with some noise anyway,” she said, nuzzling into me and smiling again. She was just like her mother. My wife always said she wanted to have as many children as possible, so she could unleash chaos into the world with mini versions of herself. I’m always surprised by how much she took after her mother, even though she never met her outside her womb.

The night ends with me carrying her sleeping self back into her bed beside mine in our room. I settle her down into the mattress softy, gently adjusting her head on her pillow, and tucking her in under her blanket. She turns, facing my bedside, her victorious smile obvious. So, even she made plans to sabotage my work so I could sleep on time. But of course, as always, I end up letting her get away with it, just as I let her mother.

I stare up at the ceiling, wondering how my wife is doing, now that she had returned to Allah. I hope she’s smiling, and hearing the birds of Jannah from where she lies.