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Dear old friend

Dear old friend,

You always manage to show up at my doorstep suddenly.

Even if I know when you're coming, I'm always taken by surprise. You'd think I'd be better prepared.

I only see you once a year, for a few days. They pass too quickly.

I always feel a bit nervous beforehand. But once I open the door and find you there, beaming, it melts away.

You always bring gifts—not things that can be touched, though. Light. Joy. Insight. Gratitude. Patience. Remembrance.

Suddenly the hours of the day seem to stretch before me. Do I spend that much time eating?

You have a way of looking into my soul, bringing out the good and the ugly. In fact, there's a piece of me that's only here when you're here.

When you leave, I feel a loss. I think what I miss most is myself—the part that is capable of so much more.

You always leave as abruptly as you arrived, taking with you the gifts you had brought. I try to keep them alive, try to nurture their glow, but they fade all the same.

I only carry forward a small light, cradling its flame, while winds from all directions threaten to snuff it out.

Ramadan mubarak.

(May 2018)

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