Vignettes

Numbness plagues sixteen year old Zahia after a death in the family. She writes in a diary to sort out her feelings, and discovers the truth behind the jumbled feelings within her.

A heart-warming and touching short story set in the fictional town of Blueridge, wherein a young girl writes in a diary to process her grief. Read today to uncover Zahia’s story.

Vignettes

It’s a strange thing, isn’t it, when someone passes away?

I’m not exactly sure what I was expecting. I’ve read enough novels and watched enough TV shows to know how it usually goes for most people. Lots of crying, sometimes wailing, sometimes sitting alone and thinking and brooding and wondering where all the time went.

For me—I dunno. It just feels a little numb. Feels like it’s real and not real at the same time.

Strange, more than anything. Even stranger is that everyone around me matches what I’ve seen in TV shows and books.

It’s hard to describe my feelings, really. It’s hard to put into words, which is why I got this diary in the first place. To put my thoughts into words.

Oh, in case I haven’t mentioned it already—Abba died yesterday.

Abba—the Bangla word for Dad. Though if I searched for it in the dictionary, I’d probably find a hundred other definitions all unique to me. All mixed into a soup. And I was drinking from that soup every day, feeling the warmth settle in my stomach and heat everything like a permanent internal sun.

My biggest mistake—thinking that the soup was infinite.

It was not.

But maybe my mind hasn’t realised it yet.

***

My earliest memory of Abba was a lot earlier than my second earliest memory. I’m not sure if that really makes sense, but this diary is written by me for myself.

So if it makes sense to me, then it makes sense. Period. Full stop. And all that jazz.

So, onto the earliest memory.

Abba was holding me one day whilst walking through Blueridge Park. At that time, as a one year old baby most likely, I didn’t know about Blueridge—the wonderful town that I’ve lived in most my life.

I didn’t know about a lot of things, since I was a baby of course.

But I did know about love. Abba and Amma’s love. Dad and Mum’s love.

Anyway, Abba was carrying me against his hip, then hoisted me up to his shoulders, and it felt like I was on top of the world. Even though it’s such an early memory, it feels the most vivid of them all. Luscious green grass crowding around the paved path Abba was strolling along. The air was light to breathe, wind soft as a whisper and tinted with the sweet scent of nearby flowers.

I remember everything being bright. Bubbly. Like a permanent lens flare was held up to the sky. Like the stars had decided to come down for a quick visit.

And most of all—

Abba’s laugh. His laugh was the brightest thing I remember. Even though I couldn’t see it from where I was sitting atop his shoulders.

That laugh—I’ll never forget it.

Not in this world, or the next.

He took me, whilst I straddled his shoulders and probably raised an arm in valiant victory, to the blue swings on the far side of the park. Now, those swings are tiny and for babies, as I like to constantly remind my eight-year-old younger brother, Asif.

But for a baby Zahia—that’s me, by the way—those swings were like mountains waiting to be conquered.

And conquer them I did. Most definitely.

I sat on one swing by the far side as if I owned the entire park, legs outstretched like it was my personal throne. I was the queen of the park, if you will.

Abba came behind me and pushed me forward once, slowly, before doing it again. His hands were soft against my back, eyes constantly watching to make sure I didn’t slip out of the special seat meant for babies.

His fingers were warm, too, and that laugh—it never stopped for a second.

And for those few moments, with Abba’s helpful pushing, it felt like I could fly. No caution to the wind. Reaching as high as I could as though the sun was a mere grasp away.

As I’m remembering and writing this, that sun in my mind’s eye blinks out completely. Leaving me in darkness.

So that memory fades rather quickly, as they all do.

As I’m writing this, the sun’s not out outside. Everything’s kinda dark and bleak, as if the world’s been dipped in BBQ sauce. And I really hate BBQ sauce. Abba likes it—used to like it—and he fed it to me once.

It was one of the most distasteful—in both senses of the word—experiences of my life.

Never again.

Never.

I realise, after writing that last statement, that it's absolutely true.

Abba will never, ever, feed me BBQ sauce again.

***

I’m writing here again because the next memory’s suddenly come to mind. But before that, Asif was annoying me a lot today.

Like, a lot.

Look, a sixteen year old girl needs her space and alone time to destress. I think everyone knows that. And I’m no different, of course. Give me some time to relax, and I’ll bloom again like a flower in spring after a little nap or a little read of dark fantasy romance.

More often the last one, because some of these enemies to lovers plots make my blood boil.

And yet I can’t stop turning the pages under my bedside lamp late into the night.

Anyway, girls need relaxing time.

Simple, right.

Asif always gave me that alone time because Abba used to play with him. Asif would hound Abba till the skies turned cloudy and grey, and then until they turned dark after sunset.

But never—not once in my life—did I see Abba get angry at Asif about it. There were times when Abba would come back from home tired as a wilting flower in winter’s fury. And in those times, I would keep my distance and let Abba rest.

But Abba would always open his arms wide and invite the whole family—Hunter the cat included—to give him one big embrace. All squished together like marshmallows in a packet.

Amma laughed when Abba did this, but Asif took advantage of it and begged Abba to play Beyblade with him or duel him with Yugi-oh cards or take the toy car out for a spin in the garden.

But now that Abba’s gone, I realise that Asif’s also grieving. Asif also needs someone to play with him. But Amma’s busy, and I need a bit of alone time too.

That’s why I’m here writing, after all.

And it’s after avoiding Asif that the next memory’s decided to spring up on me all of a sudden. It’s from when I was four, and on a playdate at a friend’s house, my third ever playdate.

Her name is Maisha, the best friend that is, though I barely remember her face now since we’ve moved house from up north. Kind eyes, a smile that was infectious. Bubbly cheeks, perhaps.

We were next door neighbours, with Amma friends with Maisha’s mum and Abba friends with Maisha’s dad.

Since we came to London from Blueridge recently, that kind of close connection with neighbours hasn’t really been present. Everyone in the city’s crammed together, and yet no one wants to look left and right. Just at themselves.

But that’s a topic for another day.

Maisha had about a hundred dolls in her house, since it was her favourite hobby to dress them up and act out scenes with them. Maisha also always said that, when she was older, she wanted to write stories with her favourite characters.

I wonder what she’s doing now. I wonder if she’s writing those stories and sharing them with the world.

I really do wonder.

We were playing with the dolls as normal, making outfits for them before pretending to have a photoshoot like we were fashion designers at a show. Maisha would grab each doll, some made of plastic whilst others were soft as teddy bears, in both hands and do funny voices whilst acting out scenes she’d seen in a movie the previous week.

The floor was wooden—and even then I disliked wooden floors—but in my memory the floorboards were warm. A strip of sunlight lanced in through a window and spliced the space between Maisha and I whilst we spoke. Bright white against brown floor.

And then I found out that we were moving to Blueridge.

At that exact moment, Amma came in with Maisha’s mum and broke the news to us together. That this would be the last time we played together. Possibly the last time ever.

Third time’s the charm is something I always heard whilst growing up. But in that moment, on our third playdate, it was a death sentence to a young girl who was losing the first real friend she’d ever made.

I remember crying, tears falling down my face, and hugging Maisha with everything I had. Then I turned angry—that temper I’m kinda famous for now sparking its first embers. I punched and kicked Amma with my little fists that could generate no more power than a soft pillow, and Amma tried to hug me and tell me everything was going to be alright.

But I didn’t listen to her.

Instead, I raced downstairs to where Abba was speaking with Maisha’s dad, and I jumped into his arms and burrowed my head into his chest. His chest, much like his heart, was wide and warm, and I grabbed as much of his shirt as I could in my hands and let out all the emotions that welled deep in myself.

At four years of age, I couldn’t feel the embarrassment that would come if I did something like that now.

Although I know for sure that, if Abba was still around today, he’d have the same response of holding me tight and letting me eke out every last bit of my feelings into his chest.

Abba then held me up to the ceiling, as though I was on that swing again and soaring above the world. He grinned his toothy grin.

And he said, “You’ll make many friends. I know you will. Because someone as bright as you—Zahia—will never be without light.”

I’m sure my four year old brain didn’t understand anything other than Abba’s bright smile. But back then, his expression was enough for me. And now, his words are enough of a comfort.

And still, even now that he's dead, for some reason I can’t feel anything. That strange sense of numbness is still there, deep in my chest, brewing like my heart is in a witch’s cauldron.

And sometimes—a lot of times, to be honest—I wish Abba was around. So I could hold onto him and wail into his chest and let him know just how empty I feel inside. And, like when I was four years old, those emotions would spread and ease and comfort would enter my heart.

But that’ll never happen again. None of the memories will.

Because Abba is dead.

And I guess that’s just a reality that I’ll have to come to terms with. I had to leave Maisha to move to Blueridge, and we had to leave Blueridge to move to London, and Abba had to leave London to move to heaven.

I guess in life we’re all moving, upwards or downwards. Forwards or backwards. But there is no standing still, not even whilst we’re sleeping.

Abba died in his sleep, after all, not with a roar or with a whimper.

Just with a silent, peaceful, last breath.

***

When I was young, school wasn’t the best time for me. Particularly primary school, from about year two to year five.

Although I’ve thinned out over the years—thank Allah for badminton club in secondary school—back then I was quite the chubby child. Amma always jokes that it’s because I ate too much meat curry—I think it’s probably the sweets that Abba always bought.

But that’s besides the point.

Because that weight became a target for those around me in school.

In a strange way, I’m kinda glad that it was primary school where I was bullied, and not secondary school. Although I still remember some of the worst incidents, kids that young don’t really know what they’re doing.

Asif is a clear example of this, when he decides to steal my shampoo and use half of it for no reason before apologising and giving me a hug. I know he’s not a malicious, evil shampoo thief, that's for sure. He’s just being silly, like all kids.

Now I understand, of course, how kids that young can be cruel or heartless because of the way their parents behave, because of what they’ve seen on TV and online, and because of simple peer pressure in some cases.

But back then I was just as jaded about life, and I didn’t understand why the size of my stomach could be cause for name-calling. I certainly didn’t call others bad words just because they were fat, or had a lisp, or had strange-shaped ears.

It just didn’t make sense to me.

When I told Amma and Abba about it, they went to the school to complain and help me, but it was more than just that. They decided that, if my school life wasn’t the best because there were only a few schools in Blueridge anyway, my home life absolutely would be.

Enter in their newest invention—living room sleepovers.

Before Asif was born, and many times after he was born, Amma and Abba would lug down mattresses from upstairs and place them on the living room floor. Our floor was a little too cramped, but if the sofas were pushed to the walls, then enough space was available.

Just about enough for me, Abba, and Amma to fit side by side, with a little baby Asif gurgling beside Amma after he was born.

And in that space, we huddled under our duvets with the TV in front of us, cuddling together and talking about our days well into the nights. I knew, in the back of my mind, that they were doing it all for my sake, that they only did this to make it so that I had warmth to return to after the coldness of school bullying.

But I also knew that they enjoyed the bonding time—both Amma and Abba did.

We’d binge watch YouTube videos, one after the other. Some videos were on different phenomenons in space, and we’d marvel at the wonders of Allah in the natural world. Other videos were cute cats playing around with each other, playing pranks on each other. Sometimes we watched family vlogs too, since I really loved seeing cute babies (and Amma loved it secretly as well, though she never admitted it).

After Asif was born—well, he loved the vlogs too, since he probably felt like he was making friends outside his family. He would gurgle at the screen, and sometimes it felt like the smiling babies would gurgle right back at him.

I wish I could have another living room sleepover now. I wish I could cuddle up with Abba like I could when I was a little girl. I wish he would raise me on his shoulders and show me the world like he did when I was a baby.

But those times have passed.

Passed like the bullying.

And I know that both of them—Abba and the bullying—will never return.

After a few more years of the bullying, primary school was thankfully over, and secondary school began. A new life, a new normal where I wasn’t hounded for who I was, where I made friends that have stuck by me to this day, and I know that I wouldn’t have been able to make it without Abba and Amma looking out for me.

I wouldn’t have made it at all.

I always hear the phrase that someone doesn’t know what they’ve lost until it’s actually gone. Until it’s disappeared from their life, or been pushed away. Or been ripped away.

And I believe that the statement is true.

Because now that Abba’s gone, I’m feeling all those emotions I’d forgotten about over the years. I’m feeling them as fresh as a stab across the heart, as fresh as cutting my finger whilst chopping vegetables for Amma—no, this feels worse, way worse.

And I don’t know what to do about it. What to feel about it.

It’s as if my heart’s teetering on the edge of a cliff of sadness, and I’m about to fall into the void below. It’s as though I can’t help the drop, that I’m pushing myself into the void by remembering everything about Abba.

But I know, as the grief continues, and as it eventually subsides, that more memories are going to arrive. Positive memories, and I hope they can help me realise exactly what I’ve lost in my life.

I hope that this sense of numbness inside me can disappear.

And allow me to feel once again.

***

One of my secondary school teachers, a few years ago when I was in year nine, said something interesting in one of her many pre-class rambles. I mean, this isn’t going to sound interesting at first, since it was about an old boyfriend of hers from back in the day—she’s like over fifty now.

And boyfriends are haram-haram, as Amma always says. As if saying haram twice in a row somehow makes the point stronger.

But I’ve always been good at twisting arguments in English Literature to make it seem like I know what I’m talking about. I did it in my GCSEs to great success, hehe. And I can twist things here too.

She said that she and her boyfriend loved each other, and then fell out of love afterwards. I didn’t understand it, and to be honest I still don’t. How can you love someone and then not love them?

How can you go from one day loving someone, which is like the purest emotion there could ever be, and then just…not?

It doesn’t make sense to me at all.

I love Amma, love Abba, love Asif even if he is a pesky little brother sometimes.

Sure, there are times that I hate them more than BBQ sauce and cold wooden floors—at least, that’s what I would’ve said if you asked me in the moment. But I’d never say that I don’t love them. I think if Amma told me she didn’t love me I’d die on the spot. If Abba said it—the same outcome.

If Asif said it…well, I wouldn’t trust what he says anyway since he’s still a little kid. And then two minutes later he’d get over it and come and sit with me anyways.

But my teacher in year nine said the part that I find fascinating: “It’s better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all.”

I never heard the phrase before that day, and I’m pretty sure it’s meant in a romantic sense. Maybe some widows or widowers used that phrase to comfort themselves when their significant other passed away.

As I wrote that, I realised something that makes my stomach nearly drop into my feet.

Maybe Amma’s using that same phrase to help herself grieve, now that Abba’s gone. Maybe she’s thinking it’s better to have loved and lost, instead of having never met Abba ever.

It’s not just me that’s suffering here, and it’s not just me that’s thinking about Abba every day since he died.

It’s everyone that ever loved him, and loved him when he passed away.

I think my life would’ve been worse if I never met Abba and Amma.

And if I lost them…

I dunno. Would it be better to have never known someone like Abba? Or would it be better to know him and then lose him the way we did?

I think it’s the second one, since I’m remembering more and more as the days go by. I think Amma would agree with me. Asif might not agree—but he’s still a kid so his opinion doesn’t count on the subject just yet. He’ll agree when he’s older, obviously.

I wonder if Abba would agree.

I think he would. And then he’d give me a long hug and squeeze me tight and tell me that he loves me as his favourite daughter in the world. Something he always used to say. Always.

I always replied, “But I’m your only daughter in the world, Abba. You haven’t got any other options.”

And then he’d say: “I wouldn’t swap you for anyone.”

I remember the last time I wrote in here, I said that maybe the negative memories of pain will lead to more positive memories afterwards. And I feel like it’s happening.

I feel like…finally, it’s actually happening.

And that emptiness inside me…those memories are filling it up.

***

More time has passed now, since Abba died. It’s been a few months, and I’ve barely written in here in that time. But when I do…it helps me a little, I guess.

I don’t feel so numb anymore. I don’t feel as empty as I did before, when I just wanted to push away the world. We’ve sorted out the funeral…prayed the janaazah…gotten all the legal stuff done, inheritance done, even if it was one of the hardest things in my life.

Over the last three months…I’ve played a lot more with Asif. I haven’t ignored him. Instead of reading my dark fantasy romances (which are filled with idiot plots anyway, now that I think about it) I’m helping him read his kiddie books.

And instead of just ignoring Amma, I’m going shopping with her whenever possible. I’m spending as much time as I can, because if there’s anything that Abba’s death has taught me…

It’s that I need to spend good time with the ones I love. Because if I don’t, then when they die, I’ll have nothing to look back on.

And what if I’m the one that dies next? The people around me that love me—will they have anything to look back on, other than a sulky Zahia that just wants to stay holed up in her room forever?

I think…I think the reason that I was so unfeeling, if that’s even a word, after Abba died was because I didn’t think about his life. I just shut down myself, as if I was trying to die with him.

But everyone else…maybe they were trying to think about life without him, and that’s why they cried.

Maybe they realised that the hugs and kisses and playtimes were never going to be there again, whilst all I could think about was how I wished to be alone in my own head.

But we can’t survive on our own like that. If Abba was the way that I was in that month after his death, then none of the things I remember now…none of them would have happened.

The smiles, the laugh I can never forget, the countless days spent at Blueridge Park…they wouldn’t be in my head, in my heart.

My chest…it would truly be empty.

And that’s not something I want for any of the other people I love, whether Amma or Asif or any of my friends.

I’m healing…I’m no longer empty.

And that counts for something.

It can only be up from here, I think.

***

It’s seven months after Abba passed, and something extraordinary happened today. I’m still thinking about it, and my head’s reeling like nothing else, and since it’s been such a long time since I’ve written in here, I thought I’d do it again.

I cried!

I actually cried about Abba and his death.

I know I'm saying it like it's a happy thing, but it actually is. Like, at first I felt so numb and empty I didn't know what to do with myself, and it felt as if that emotion would never step aside from my life.

But…over the few months since I've last written in here, I kept remembering more and more and more. It's like my brain wants to remember, and it's peeling back the curtains my subconscious put around those happy memories.

And now, when I remember those days at Blueridge Park or Blueridge's big mosque or the scenic walks across the pier—something in my chest moves, as if my heart's weeping.

And today, when I was in my room sorting out some clothes I'd washed, I poked a hand into an abaya that Abba got me from the hijab store in Blueridge's town mall.

A normal, black abaya. Nothing special, nothing colourful, perhaps as dull as abayas can get.

And, I don't know why, but it smelt of Abba’s musky scent he always used to put on before going out. The one that you couldn't smell unless you were close to him, both physically and emotionally.

And then I started crying—my heart, and my eyes, and everything else—and the tears just felt so good. Good in a way that nothing else has felt in months and months. They were hot tears, and felt like all that tension inside me was finally being released.

It is better to have loved and lost…and I think now I'm finally realising just who I've lost. And that realisation is making me tear up even now.

But love is forever, isn't it? It's not like I'll never see Abba again, if we meet in Jannah inshAllah. It's not like that smile and that laugh are gone forever.

I haven't loved and lost…not really. I've just loved and delayed, maybe. I'm not a poet so I can't make a quote that sounds as good as the original. But you catch my drift, right.

I think…I think I'll go downstairs now and ask Amma if we can have another living room sleepover—Amma, me, and Asif. A sleepover of old, with mattresses and more blankets than we know what to do with.

We'll pig out on snacks (even if pigs are haram-haram) and munch until our bellies are full whilst watching something or just chatting or lazing about as if nothing exists besides us.

I can miss Abba, I can cry over him, I can look forward to seeing him again.

I'm allowed to feel, I'm allowed to remember and not be a numb husk of myself. I'm allowed to process everything in my own way.

But it's not like he's the only one I love. There's others too, and I have to cherish them just as much.

So, in the end, I'll have the vignettes of our lives to remember.

The vignettes of love.

Feel free to read any of my other free short stories, or click the all fiction tab above for info on where to find my longer works.

JazakAllahu Khayran for reading.