Hatim's hand

It's somewhat disconcerting to see my father in the patient's chair: "somewhat" because I know that this is not a major operation or medical issue--he is at the dentist's office, and the dentist is my friend; "disconcerting" because what I see, at its core, is still Hatim, my father, in the patient's chair.


I wanted to type this as it was happening but I couldn't take my eyes off of what was going on in front of me. I had to watch Radi perform, but more keenly, keep my eye on Hatim's hand. Raising his hand would signal that he feels pain. On my watch, Hatim is not allowed to be in pain--and so I kept watch and decided to record this blog in my brain, and release it later [which is now].


Hatim's hand represents isharat alem in ways that extend beyond dental procedures. As I stare at Hatim's hand, his fingers curled around the ends of the arm rests, I notice his white knuckles and the staggering shades of flesh--tan, beige, lighter, darker--interrupted by darkest-brown hairs. I sense the remnants of his burns...

...1970s. An age of youthfulness and whimsey--full of spontaneity and newness and promise in the land of "opportunity." Hatim (who would become my dad), Yousef (who would become khalee), and their families had been in the U.S. for a relatively short while now. Life was robust and fiesty. Hatim and Yousef were more than cousins--they were friends--and they would expend much of their youthful energy together. So it was natural that they were together that day in the car when the accident happened.

The story has been told to me several times--car, intersection, intersecting, woman, crash, flipped, fire, escape, where is Yousef?

...hospital, skin graft, hands...

Hatim didn't raise his hand, al 7amdulilah.







Allah yir7amak, khalee.