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.