Upon taking a breather to cease the dejection that I retained which could potentially drive me further into a higher level of sadness, I made an attempt to utilize my sight as a tool to divert my attention away in order to compose myself and be additionally stern with my emotion. I refused to weep.
Looking up, there was no hint of blue, just different shades of grey. It looked like the painter running out of different colours and irrationally baffled by which grey to brush on, thus coming out with at least three would satisfy his bewilderment.
As if the skies knew the clouds were grieving. By revealing some of its hues, the skies knew that it would disregard the heaviness that the clouds were possessing; therefore, accordingly, the skies gratified what it had to do by staying hidden and let the gloom from the clouds to be vented out unhurriedly.
All pair of eyes; dampened and concealing the indescribable intense sorrows was on the wooden compartment covered with green fabric painted with the calligraphy of the Almighty’s holy words. The soulless body was finally being escorted out of the mosque and transported into the van. That was, and will always, be the part which unfathomably the hardest for me—the deceased was finally on his last journey to his next home; the grave.
And that’s when I didn’t even try to halt my tears. I just cried my eyes out.
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