Mother called me Ayatullah Nurjati—two words I made into a blind map for this ever-heavier life.
Back then, I thought only she strung them together.
“Ayatullah,” she said, “Sign of Allah.”
I learned to read it in the wrinkles of my father’s brow,
in prayers stumbling from our mouths too busy complaining.
“Nurjati,” she whispered, “Light of the Teak.”
I thought it an old metaphor,
until I realized: teak isn’t valued in its youth.
......
Mother called me Ayatullah Nurjati—two words I made into a blind map for this ever-heavier life.
Back then, I thought only she strung them together.
“Ayatullah,” she said, “Sign of Allah.”
I learned to read it in the wrinkles of my father’s brow,
in prayers stumbling from our mouths too busy complaining.
“Nurjati,” she whispered, “Light of the Teak.”
I thought it an old metaphor,
until I realized: teak isn’t valued in its youth.
......