“Mom… Mom… Mom! Where’s Mom?!!”
His mother was startled and Cekka suddenly sat up. His hips automatically sat stiff, gasping for breath, his clothes soaked with beads of sweat pouring from his back. Tears flooded his mother’s sarong. His mother hugged him tightly. Cekka cried bitterly that evening.
“Mom! Ceka doesn’t want to go to school, no… no….”
On the floor of the house’s bed, his mother stroked Cekka’s head. Her hands cradled her beloved child’s body while occasionally reciting prayers melodiously. As the Maghrib call to prayer began to sound, Cekka’s head leaned deeper against his mother’s chest. The clouds collectively began to disappear below the horizon line to the west.
“Cekka, let’s go to the mosque… come, let’s recite.”
The children walked together, approaching the call to prayer. They stopped by Cekka’s house, preparing to go to the mosque together.
His mother smiled at Cekka. “Don’t cry anymore, look at the Qibla, focus, and pray earnestly, dear,” his mother said softly.
Buttoning Cekka’s shirt and tying his father’s sarong around his small waist, his mother wiped his hands. “After prayers, it’ll be dark. When you come back, hold your friends’ hands, okay?” a little girl promptly grabbed his small hand.
His tiny eyes were calm as if understanding his mother’s intentions. His innocent eyes shone under the twilight lamp, as if God was revealing a miracle to him.
His mother looked at the setting sun. She was sure Cekka would grow up to be a very handsome man with eyes very different from his peers. Glowing in the retinas, and sometimes displaying shades of orange like the East Sea exposed to the sunset. His eyes were those of a young nobleman.
Jambi, March 18, 2019.