By Anannya Dheep
“How will I ever see her again?” I asked my mother, who gripped the steering wheel in
silence, her hands tight, a testament to her powerlessness in that tragic moment. She had
no answers, none that could ease the weight of my question or the pain that clouded the air
between us.
To this day, I can’t fathom the strength it took for her to press her foot on the accelerator,
driving us away from Ameena’s fragile body that lay in the open-doored ambulance behind
us. A frigid December evening unveiled itself as I cracked the window, trying to escape the
suffocating grief that lingered in the car with us. Misery followed like a shadow, heavy and
unrelenting.
A five-minute drive home felt like a burden on my shoulders, as if I were heading back to
school on a dreaded Monday morning, rather than toward the once warm embrace of my
home. The streets lay flat and empty, barren of life. The roadside lamps flickered in eerie
harmony, as if mourning alongside me. There were no flies to dance in the pale light—they
too, it seemed, had been swallowed by the gloom. The clouds hung low, almost touching the
earth. I imagined they had descended to escort Ameena's soul to the heavens. But no matter
how gentle the gesture, I could only curse them for taking her away from me.
Who were they to do that?
Who were they to take my joy?
Who were they to steal away the cold hands I loved to hold?
Who were they to rob me of the face I looked to before laughter spilled out?
Who were they to take the one person who loved me, even when I couldn’t love myself?
Who were they to strip away my childhood, the games, the ice creams, the hugs, and our
secret handshakes?
I cried during the entire car ride. I cried as I took the lift up to our apartment. I cried while
pulling off my socks and sinking into my bed. I cried through the night, skipping breakfast to
cry in the shower. I cried into my grandmother’s lap, in my father’s warm embrace, and
silently amidst the watchful eyes of strangers. I cried every time I walked by the places
Ameena and I had visited, memories haunting me like ghosts. And every time I heard the
call to prayer from the mosque—the same prayer that was played when they carried her
body to the local mosque—I cried again. It echoed through me like a scar that would never
heal.
The sight of her pale body, wrapped in an even paler cloth, being placed in the wooden
casket is burned into my mind. A 16-year-old, barely more than a child, lost to death. For
what reason did it have to come so early? A 16-year-old, who still had a life full of promise. A
16-year-old with a younger brother who depended on her and parents who loved her
selflessly. A 16-year-old.
Ameena was family to me, despite all the barriers—religion, strict parents, hectic schedules,
school rules—we overcame them all. At the end of every day, no matter the calamity, we
were there for each other. Eight long years. Ameena endured her share of struggles for a girl
our age, and though I walked alongside her through her downfalls, I feel a pang of guilt that I
couldn’t do more. Perhaps she would have told me how much I meant to her, how much I
had helped her, but in the whirlpool of my own self-doubt, I never fully grasped it.
It felt as though the whole town knew of her passing. As if the moon itself had dimmed to
mark her departure. People knew, and they kept it from me until I returned from school, no
one brave enough to tell me earlier. That was how intertwined our lives were.
In the aftermath, I found myself trapped in a void. A cold, empty void. Ameena had ascended
far beyond its reach, and I was left there, struggling to hold on to the remnants of her
memory. In this void, my voice echoed, but only back at me:
“What will I do without her?”
“How will I ever find joy again?”
“Who will I turn to when life overwhelms me?”
“After everything, why did this have to happen?”
On and on, my questions spiralled, pulling me deeper into the abyss of my own sorrow.
When the walls of my grief began to close in, I would escape the house, searching for
anywhere to breathe, anywhere to feel lighter. One day, I found myself sitting on a bench
near a park. It was there I saw two little girls chasing each other, laughing, their innocence a
painful reminder of Ameena and me. My eyes filled with tears as I watched them play, but I
stayed, unable to look away.
The sun was hidden once again, casting the park in the same greyness that had settled over
my life. After a while, their mothers arrived, and despite the children's resistance, they were
pulled apart, each walking in a different direction. One girl, passing to the left of me, joyfully
exclaimed, “We went so high on the swings, Mom! It was so fun!” But the other, walking to
the right, mumbled, “Why can’t I spend just a few more minutes with her?”
It hit me all at once, like a film reel of memories flashing before my eyes. That simple
question, “Why can’t I have just a few more minutes?” It mirrored my own desperate longing.
But why couldn’t I be grateful for the time I did have?
I suddenly realised, in the quiet of that moment, that I had been so consumed with sorrow
over Ameena's loss, I had forgotten to appreciate the time we had spent together. The
laughter, the pranks, the ice creams, the shared meals, the silly fights, the secrets. Eight
years filled with love and joy. And that hadn’t disappeared. It was still with me, woven into
the fabric of my memories.
I walked home that evening, feeling a weight lift from my heart. For the first time in a long
while, I was ready to smile again. And as I thought about the words of Dr. Seuss, “Don’t cry
because it’s over, smile because it happened,” I understood them in a way I never had
before.
“How will I ever see her again?”
No.
“I’m grateful I got to see her for as long as I did.”
By Anannya Dheep
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