ADAM BEZAAR

Sometimes, I get the feeling that my mother knows. Not the full, ugly truth of it, not the details I lock away, but the shape of my struggle. She has a hunch, a maternal instinct that pierces through the walls I build. I'm at an age where most mothers' worries are painted in the bright, cautionary colors of rebellion; bad company, late nights, getting into trouble. But her worry for me is different. It’s softer, quieter, and in its own way, much louder. She doesn't ask where

I often travel for work. As a structural engineer, doing site visits and inspections is part of job. This time though something happened. Something that kept me thinking long after the fligjt landed. I was flying, and the plane started shaking. Turbulent weather is common in winter in the Midwest. The surprising thing was that while others were panicking and I could clearly hear the commotion caused by the turbulence, I felt calm. I did not even open my eyes. I simply recited

I remember how my father died. Crystal clear, as if it happened yesterday. Hard to believe it has already been eight years. I was not in Pakistan when that day unfolded, but when I say I know how my dad died, I am not talking about the chain of events that led to it. I am talking about something deeper, the state of his soul in those final moments. I know because I was the one who bathed him for his funeral. I was the one who pulled him from cold storage, washed every wound,