“Twenty-seven laps around the sun; and still, my heart circles back to the One who placed the sun in orbit.”
Today, I celebrate another year of life. My heart feels light and giddy, yet a quiet part of it drifts away to my late grandmother, who returned to Allah on this very day in 2019, around the same time I was born in 1998, somewhere during Maghrib. Today, I might smile a lot, and laugh at smallest things, to the point my sister asked, “Itu pun terhibur?”, but deep down, my thoughts are with nenek. Birthdays have always been a big deal in my family, but ever since the year nenek, the pillar of our core, left us, the joy has always carried a shadow. For years, my mum’s grief wrapped around my day, and I understood. I wanted to be a good granddaughter and a good daughter, even if it meant my own birthday joy was muted.
This year feels different. I am in a better place, though life isn’t without its rough patches. Some friendships have been tested, and while I noticed the silence from certain people, I choose to hold it lightly in my heart and focus on the kindness that still surrounds me. My family celebrates me warmly, and I am surrounded by love, laughter, and far too many slices of cake. Cake coma xp
Yet, no matter how joyful the moment, a part of my heart will always yearn for nenek’s presence; her voice, her warmth, her unwavering love. I miss coming home to Setapak and being greeted by the aroma of her freshly steamed apam. I miss all her cooking, each dish prepared with care and her famous saying, “Makanan biar tak sedap, asal lawa”—though, truth be told, her food was always top tier.
I had a beautiful, quality childhood because of nenek and atuk. Never once did I feel I was lacking in anything. There was always good food on the table, generous pocket money (sometimes more than I needed), reassurance when life felt uncertain, and a sense of safety that wrapped around me like a warm blanket. These are just a few of the countless blessings they poured into my life—deeds that can never truly be repaid.
Alhamdulillah, for all of it—the joy, the pain, the tests, the love, the losses. As the Prophet ﷺ said to Ibn ‘Abbas, “Know that what has passed you by was not going to befall you, and what has befallen you was not going to pass you by” (al-Tirmidhī, Hadith 19 in al-Nawawī’s Arba‘īn). Every breath, every lesson, every joy tinged with longing, is a reminder that this world is not our forever home.
And perhaps that is the truth my 27 years have taught me: happiness here will never be perfect, because it is meant to point us to the place where it is whole—Jannah. May Allah reunite us there with those we love, in the best of states.
إن شاء الله بإذن الله
Al fatihah, Masri bin Hussin, Siti Mahani binti Anuar, Azman bin Arbaii, and for the souls who walked before us, whose love still lingers in the quiet corners of our days.
:)
