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I used to pray
By Essia Mahmoudi
My father’s hand twists the faucet, its screech clashing with the
ceiling fan.
He tells me to pray
with Sunnah’s surge in my heart as
I cleanse my feet for the sacred rug beneath me.
Rituals, I told myself, drag me
from the fleeting sunrise to blackened dusk.
I’d pray
loosening my guilt, the remainder of sin between my palms
spilling
onto
the
floor.
Concealed, precious veils worth verses of “Alhamdulillah’s”
