By Dita Cavdarbasha

I do not know the face of Allah but I imagine

he has a mother’s hands: gentle,

with a burn on his right index finger from cooking your favorite meal.

He has a father’s voice: rough,

but tender from singing all of your favorite songs.

He brushes your hair on Sunday nights,

and wakes you up for school on Tuesday mornings.

He always saves a spot for you when he naps on the couch.


You lie by his feet and synchronize your breathing with his.


Here, I imagine, is where holiness lives.


Dita Cavdarbasha is a rising junior studying English at Haverford College. She was born in Kosovo and grew up in Bronx, New York.