I had always been a romantic. Ever since I was a young girl. I dreamed of being rescued by prince charming- being loved even in the midst of suffering and being saved to live happily ever after. However, the reality of life had other plans.

It’s been three years since my older sister passed from this earth and moved to the next stage in her spiritual life. My grandfather passed away earlier this year, about two weeks from his 87^th birthday. They both always told me to be comfortable in who I was, to speak the truth and to express love while I’d had the chance. Both, flawed as all humans are, but beautiful in the contents of their soul.

While at home visiting for holidays, my mother asked me a bit timidly if I wanted to go with her to the cemetery. “Maybe we could go to your sister and grandad’s grave site but I’m not sure if you really want to..” I’d been procrastinating on going for the whole three years since my sister passed. Other things always came up; I moved from my hometown and as life proves again and again- time truly does foster forgetfulness. On that day, however, I could come up with no excuses. So, I thought “why not?” and drove with her to the cemetery.

Cemetery’s and funerals have always felt so melancholic. It was a dreary day- the clouds made the sky gleam a sickening grey, the rain made the soil damply wet. On pulling into the cemetery, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. The grave site was filled to the brim with tombstones, practically placed upon the other, as close as they could without enmeshing the bodies underneath in order to provide space for the person lying next to them. Visiting cemetery’s are always quite sobering: telling the truth of a journey that we must all take.

We first visited my grandfather, placed right by the river which he loved dearly. This visit was filled with joy at the memory of the beautiful man he was, melancholy at the realization that six months have passed since his passing but also pride in that he lived a long glorious life. Soon after, we left and went on the search to find my sisters tombstone. In between getting lost amidst the other graves, the twisting and twirling of the road and the awkward placement of the landmarks, we finally caught sight of her stone and left the car to go pay our respects.

My mother gleefully calls “Hayat, look at who I brought to see you! She’s finally here.” At first, I felt numb to the core, recalling the day that we actually put her into the ground. I stood silently staring at her stone, unsure where to begin or what to say. At some point, I recall my mother whispering “I’ll give you some privacy to speak to your sister” and hearing her footsteps retreat to the other side of the graveyard. It was at that moment, in the stillness of the wind, tears rolling down my face, my head bowed and speaking softly to the wind that I had the opportunity of greeting my sister for the first time in three years.

Life is quite funny. It’s amazing how we search for love and care in the oddest of places. For the better part of my life, I’d been running across lands, states, places in search of a love that was the purest reflection of divinity. “I hope for a love that is accountable, joyful, easeful, quiet, unconditional, patient and Godly.” I created lists of what it would feel like, of how my partner would love me in hardship, hug me in pain, admonish me when I was wrong and be patient in the midst of adversity. But that day, something just clicked. I realized right there, in that moment, where I stood before the sobering truth of death that the love I had been looking for was right in front of me all along.

God bless my mother, the truest representation of love.