a home in the scriptures

a cup of chai
sits in my father’s palm
he watches crowds
of people
run towards an airplane
on our television screen

he is thirteen years old
when i ask him about his mother

“baba, what was she like?”
he stares at the television screen
unflinching
silent
as i wait for him to begin

it is the same every time
a wry smile 
a glassy look in his eyes
in longing
and acceptance
that her only home
is the heavens
“she had long black hair,
in a braid always.”

some days
the corners of his mouth lift
crows feet 
line the edges
of our eyes

other days
he remains silent
my mother signals me
from afar
“why do you remind him?” 
she asks
because 
i want to remember.

I ask him again
“baba, what was she like?”
he is sixteen again
staring at the television screen
as the soviet union
pushes his family out
he stares
unflinching 
silent
“she had long black hair,
in a braid always. 
she was the kindest woman
in our village.”

he blinks.
I believe him.
my father is the kindest man
the kind
that is only inherited.

some mornings
while we wait for the sun to rise
I ask him again,
“baba, what was she like?”
as he thumbs through
worn pages
of the Quran

he smiles to himself,
“she was always sick, bed-bound. 
I’d sit at her bedside as a child,
and she’d run her hands through 
my curls. she was the most beautiful woman”

I smile.
my father 
reads silently.
he found his mother
in the scriptures

we sit cross legged
thumbing pages
of scriptures.
he tells me about the heavens
his mother’s home
as his mother’s hands
run through our curls

when the sun sets
I weave my curls
in a long, black, braid.
in the mirror, 
unblinking,
I gaze at my father’s eyes
low, almond shaped.

in the mornings,
I gingerly hold
a cup of chai
thumbing through 
pages of scriptures
knowing one day
baba will return home
to the heavens
to his mother’s arms

and i will find him
in the scriptures.