As I sit here in Penang, having slipped back into the rhythm of performing solat at the masjid just like old times, the familiar echoes of the athan calling pierce my soul with a sweetness I know I'll miss terribly once I'm gone. It's been two years since I last stepped foot on this soil—two long, grinding years in the icy grip of Detroit winters, chasing dreams that feel so distant now. I only get these fleeting visits every other year, and with just a few days left before I board that flight back for work, everything around me screams of time slipping away like sand through my fingers. The vibrant vibes of Ramadan and Eid al-Fitr, those communal iftars and takbir nights I haven't felt in Malaysia for years, haunt me now more than ever.
My family... oh, how they've changed, leaving shadows of absence in my heart. My younger brothers, once schoolboys lost in textbooks and football dreams, have leaped into manhood—now stepping into the world of work, laptops replacing notebooks, their youthful mischief traded for adult burdens. And then there's her: suddenly, I have a new sister from Ayah's second marriage, a stepmom's gentle gift after Ummi's passing years ago. She's woven into our lives now, a bright thread in the family tapestry I barely know, yet another reminder of moments I've missed from afar. The pain peaked when Ayah, my little brother, and I visited Ummi's grave in her hometown. Under the scorching sun that drained every ounce of strength from my exhausted body, I broke down—tears streaming endlessly as I whispered how much I missed her. The grief was so raw it brought blood from my nose, mixing with sobs on that brutally hot day. I see their rapid growth, hear their stories laced with new responsibilities, and it hits me like a quiet storm: I've lost so much quality time. Abroad, the days blur into nights of endless work, and here, in the warmth of our family home, I realize the void I've carved in their lives—and mine. My parents, with their greying hair and slower steps, look frailer each visit. Their smiles hide the aches of age, and I ache too, knowing I can't be the son who holds their hands through it all.
Then there are my friends, scattered like old photographs. I've reconnected with so many during this trip, sharing mamak teh tarik and nostalgic tales. But life has moved on for them—marriages, children, commitments that anchor them here while I drift across oceans. Weddings I attend feel bittersweet, reminders of paths not taken. I wish I could plant my roots in this soil, live among these people who know my soul, but I can't. Malaysia couldn't hold my ambitions; to survive, to go beyond, I had to sacrifice this life for one of financial independence. Detroit offers stability, a future where I build not just security, but freedom. Yet, every paycheck feels hollow when weighed against these stolen moments.
And now, amidst this melancholy haze, love has tiptoed back into my heart—like a thread from the past reknotted in the present. Since my Ummi passed years ago—may Allah grant her Jannah—the grief walled me off from such feelings. But on this visit, I reconnected with her: we attended the same college, though we were never close enough back then. Fate brought us together now, a woman whose eyes hold the kindness of home, whose laughter mends something broken in me. I adore one quirky thing about her most: when I tease her with jokes, she gets all garang, her fierce little temper flaring up—and oh, how cute she looks in those moments, her fire making my heart flutter even more. We’ve spent so much precious time together lately—savoring plates of Malay food side by side, lost in lazy coffee dates where conversations flowed like sweet kopi ais, and late-night phone calls that bridged the gaps between our worlds. We hung out in the bustling Klang Valley, wandering its vibrant streets hand in hand, and even ventured to her hometown, where the air felt thicker with possibility and her world opened up to me. Those moments ignited something real. I feel it deep in my bones: she could be my partner, my forever, insha’Allah. I like her—love her, even—and the thought of us together forever lights a fragile spark.
But reality crashes in like monsoon rain. I’m leaving soon, back to the cold isolation of America. The fear grips me tight: fear of losing my family to time’s relentless march, fear of this new love fading into “what ifs,” fear of missing those masjid solats and athan calls once more. Trauma from losing loved ones haunts me—the sharp pain of Ummi’s absence echoes in every goodbye. How do I hold on when distance pulls so hard? It’s tearing me apart, this nomad’s life. And the ache for Ramadan’s moon-sighting and Eid’s joyous hugs in Malaysia… it lingers like a prayer unanswered.
Yet, in the quiet of tahajjud prayers, I surrender. Allah knows best—He always has. Whatever His plan, be it roots here or wings abroad, I trust in His wisdom. Still, as the airport beckons, my soul weeps for what might slip away.
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