The air has turned gentle, the skies wear a soft grey veil, and the trees—oh, the trees—have begun their quiet transformation. Golden, amber, and rust-colored leaves drift down like whispered prayers, carpeting the earth in a tapestry of memory. It is fall here in the northern hemisphere, or as we called it back home in Malaysia, autumn. A season we only knew through textbooks and television screens, yet somehow, it always felt familiar.
I walk to work each morning beneath these trees, and with every step, I feel you, Ummi.
You left several years ago, but this season—this tender, melancholic season—brings you back to me in ways I never expected. I remember you curled up on the woven screw pine mat, eyes glistening as you watched Autumn in My Heart, that Korean drama you loved so dearly. The soundtrack, especially the song Reason, echoes in my mind now, like a ghost melody carried by the wind. It plays in my heart as I watch the leaves fall, each one a memory, each one a moment I wish I could share with you.
Malaysia never had four seasons, but you taught me to imagine them. You spoke of Nova Scotia with such longing, as if the forests there held a secret just for you. You dreamed of Sault Ste. Marie, of watching the locks and the great lakes shimmer under a Canadian sky. I wish I could bring you here, Ummi. I wish I could show you the world you once dreamed of. I wish I could walk beside you through these golden woods, hand in hand, wrapped in scarves and stories.
This season is my favorite. It’s mellow, calm, and cloudy—just like your voice when you sang lullabies and dzikr, just like your presence when you sat beside me during storms. There’s something sacred in the stillness of autumn, something that feels like a quiet embrace from the universe. It’s as if the world pauses to remember, to reflect, to grieve gently.
I miss you, Ummi. I miss your laughter, your warmth, your way of making even the simplest things feel like poetry. I carry you with me—in the rustle of leaves, in the hush of morning fog, in the way the light filters through the trees like a blessing.
Al-Fatihah for you, my dearest Ummi. May your soul be wrapped in peace as soft as autumn clouds, and may the gardens of Jannah bloom with the colors you never got to see.
This season is yours. Always.
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