Mother, This Is Asghar

I imagine the Day when the heavens unfold. The Day when every secret is finally told. The Day when the scales are raised on high. The Day when no soul can live a lie. The Day when Prophets gather side by side. The Day when Martyrs stand in pride. The Day when Angels fill the sky. The Day when every eye will cry. Yet on that Day, a silence appears. A silence heavier than centuries of tears. A silence that causes the heavens to weep. A silence so vast, so painfully deep. For Husain is coming. And all of creation knows. Muhammad knows. Ali knows. Hasan knows. Zaynab knows. The Angels know. The Prophets know. And every soul lowers its gaze below. For resting within Husain’s embrace is a child whose memory time could not erase. A child whose name still shakes the sky. A child for whom believers cry. Ali al-Asghar. Ali al-Asghar. Ali al-Asghar. And all of creation begins to cry. Adam weeps. Nuh weeps. Ibrahim lowers his head and weeps. Musa weeps. Isa weeps. Jibra’il folds his wings and weeps. Muhammad stands with tears in his eyes. Watching his grandson slowly arrive. Not alone. Not free from pain. Still carrying a grief that remains. Then Fatimah steps from among the crowd. Not speaking loudly. Not speaking proud. Just looking toward her beloved son. Toward the wounded heart of Muhammad’s one. And when she sees him, her tears begin. Not because Karbala is unknown to her within. She knows the thirst. She knows the cries. She knows what happened beneath those skies. She knows of Abbas. She knows of Akbar. She knows every wound. She knows every scar. But today is different. Today she will see the child she has longed for eternally. Then softly she says, “My son… come near.” “My son… bring him here.” And Husain walks forward. Slowly. Weak. As though his heart can barely speak. And all of creation begins to cry. For every soul beneath the sky knows what is coming. Knows what is near. Knows why Husain is shedding tears. Then Fatimah opens her arms at last. And centuries vanish into the past. Yet Husain stands still. He does not move. He cannot move. For what is he being asked to do? He carried Asghar through every tear. He carried Asghar year after year. Through every majlis. Through every cry. Through every whispered lullaby. Through every mourner’s broken plea. Through every heart that would not let him be. And now his mother stands nearby. And still he cannot say goodbye. And all of creation begins to cry. Muhammad cries. Ali cries. Hasan cries. Zaynab cries. The Angels cry. The heavens cry. For Husain cannot say goodbye. Then Fatimah whispers, her voice so slow. “My son… let me carry him now.” And every soul begins to shake. And every heart begins to break. For she is not speaking to Asghar alone. She is speaking to a son who has suffered on his own. “My son… let me carry him now.” “You have carried him long enough.” “You have carried him through every tear.” “You have carried him through every year.” “You have carried him through every sigh.” “You have carried him beneath every sky.” “My son… let me carry him now.” And Husain looks into Asghar’s face. The face he never could replace. And perhaps he remembers that final day. Perhaps he remembers that final prayer. Perhaps he remembers holding him tight. Perhaps he remembers that final sight. Then slowly… his fingers begin to release. Not into loss. But into peace. One finger loosens. Then another too. As centuries of sorrow pass through. And finally Asghar leaves the embrace of his father and rests in another place. Fatimah holds him close and near. Kissing away centuries of tears. Kissing his forehead. Kissing his face. Holding him with endless grace. And all of creation begins to cry. Not from grief. Not asking why. But because a wound carried through every year has finally found relief here. Then Fatimah whispers: “My child… no more thirst.” “My child… no more pain.” “My child… no more waiting.” “My child… no more rain.” “My child… you are home.” And Husain watches from afar. Watching his mother hold Asghar. Watching a grief finally find release. Watching a wound finally know peace. And I imagine on that Day that even Paradise looks away. For some moments are too sacred to explain. Too beautiful to place in words again. A grandmother holding her grandson near. A mother comforting her son through tears. A father releasing centuries of pain. And all of creation weeping again. So if Allah grants me a place that Day, let me stand very far away. Not near the Throne. Not near reward. Not near the gardens my soul adored. Just let me witness that scene somehow. When Fatimah said: “My son… let me carry him now.”