Belonging.

It had been a three year battle with an aggressive type of lung disease. The first thing Sakina and her son Kareem did after returning from the cemetery was to move all of Saad's belongings into the study, carefully locking the door behind them.

Months of grieving followed. Trying to pick up the pieces of her life and make sense of the tragedy whilst comforting her children.  She had cleaned out a little jam jar and if anyone recalled some funny or touching anecdote they would write it down to be shared at the end of each month. Sakina wanted to keep her husband's memory alive for her family and made sure they talked about him often.  However, she just didn't feel strong enough to address those boxes in the study just yet. 

Sakina's parents had been calling lately every few days to remind her to sort through the items to see what could be given as sadaqa.  

"It has been three months now, beta, it's time to open the study door, chalo we will come and help."  They meant well and were worried about her. Dad had advice. Rearrange the  furniture. Sell the car. Move back in with us. You'll feel better, not so sad and all that crying, not good for you beta.

Sakina opened the creaky wooden door. She had to push with her entire body and didn't remember it being so heavy before. She walked over to a mahogany bookshelf that was groaning with souvenirs.  A wooden chess set from Russia and 14 marble, enamel, in-laid boxes. There were albums of stamp collections with hinges stacked in rows, preserved on parchment paper. Dozens and dozens of tapes and videos of sales seminars. Sakina chuckled at the section on motivational literature arranged alphabetically- Dale Carnegie, Steven Covey. Hadn't her husband been the one who inspired others with his zest for life.  He had been the last person in the world to lack motivation-but had memorized some of these tomes regardless. 

Sakina's hand folded over a decorative itr bottle from the Emirates still sealed shut; but its scent wafting through treacherously. She felt light headed from the memory sensory high and sank into a box of sweaters. 

It was a biography of a man and an inventory of grief. Forty five shirts. Eleven silky ties. Twenty-four crisp white handkerchiefs still neatly folded with aspirations of being pocket-squares again. Dresser drawers that couldn't be contained- bulging with documents, transcripts retelling a lifetime of academic achievements. Awards, degrees. And a marriage certificate. Embossed blue letters: Nafees Manzil. December 23rd. 1988. Groom's profession: Businessman. Bride's profession: Student.

"Where on earth do I file this now?" Sakina wondered. 

More stacks of paper: to-do lists about future plans, a ticket stub from Nusrat Fateh Ali's final concert. Restaurant receipts and pay stubs. Dozens of spiral bound journals filled with Arabic lessons, sales seminars, religious lectures, time management skills. Page upon page with notes in the margins.

He had been a man with refined tastes. There were monogrammed cufflinks. Relics of evenings out with family or of overseas business trips. Remnants of a full, productive life. A dynamic career, international travel. 

She drifted deeper and deeper into the sweaters trying to find that unforgettable fragrance and not even noticing that her mother was standing in front of her hoping to be of assistance. 

"Oh just clearing up, Sakina said jumping up. 

" You mean you haven't donated anything yet?" 

"I think I might need a bit longer," Sakina stalled.  

Mother was on a mission. "Well if you donate these clothes, it could help some needy folks."  

Sakina wanted to say that she knew how charity worked. "I just need a few more weeks." she said instead, setting herself down on an antique stool, tracing the mother of pearl designs with her finger. Sakina recalled the old shop where Saad had found the stool and how he had haggled with the elderly owner just for fun and how Saad had ended up paying the asking price for it regardless. It was a harmless game he would play and it had always made her giggle uncontrollably.

Sakina sighed now. Charity? Her mother was teaching her about charity. Saad's whole life had been seeped in altruism. He had given of himself; was always the one to organize family gatherings.  He had mentored youth about business, given time and resources. She pondered on how perhaps now his right hand would finally learn what his left hand had done.  But Sakina has already said too much.  Her mother now thought she was stingy. 

"Sakina, it will be easier in the long run. So for example now that Pyaari isn't feeling well, I got the Salvation Army to pick up all her fancy shalwar kameezes.

Isn't feeling well?? repeated Sakina. Pyaari Khala was in the final stages of an aggressive cancer. This was Sakina's aunt, her mother's sister. Sakina wanted to comment that her mother seldom mentioned her. Was it that painful. The cancer had spread within days and Aunty had become a shadow of herself.  Sakina wanted to ask how her aunt was coping but her mother was delving into a box filled with beach towels.                                      

Why was the world so invested in four cardboard boxes full of old clothes?  It was as if they could solve world poverty and hunger through this pile of fabric. Sakina tucked a stray hair back into her ponytail and looked over to her mother who was opening up trash bags with a vengeance. It made no sense. You lose a whole person- a spouse, a parent, a child even. Did people really think the bereaved wouldn't be able to let go of a Macy's button down collar shirt- $19.99 in the biannual sale.  Surely, it was a personal decision. Some would take comfort in holding onto the items and others would want to donate immediately or a little later, once ready. There couldn't be just one right way to address this.

It dawned on Sakina that it wasn't the belongings that others had an issue with. It was the sense of longing beyond the belongings and the panic that it created. It was the clinging onto the person, the emotion, the grief behind the cloth that was unsettling and uncomfortable.  Did it remind people of their own mortality? Wasn't a believer supposed to recall death daily.?  Regardless,  the goal was to run away from emotion.  Erase memories lest you cry. Crying is scary. Grief is terrifying and uncomfortable. You had to learn to live again without that someone. But the first step was to talk about the loved one. Sakina turned to her mother.

"Let's sort out this photo album, " she began, giving her mother's hand a squeeze. "There's some lovely ones of you and Pyari Khala at Yosemite. Oh and take this stool and give it to that refugee family you have been helping.  Kareem can drive it over to them- he'd love to do that- so much like his dad. So this family-are they from Jordan, they will really appreciate the carved designs."