Wings of Angel

"Tell me about the wings of angel, Grandpa," Aban asked, curiosity lighting up his eyes, inspired by the tales from the madrasah.

Grandpa, with a tender embrace, replied, "Are you ready to fly?"

Aban's joy spilled like a bubbling stream. "Yes!" he exclaimed. Grandpa's face, once etched by the shadows of pain and aging, now glowed with youth and serenity, bathed in a light that traced a heavenly grace. Several months had passed since Aban last saw him, the memory of their previous meeting was in dull moments when Grandpa lay bedridden, his breaths whispering final goodbyes.

"Grandpa, in madrasah, I heard of virtues like Sidq, Sabr, Shahada. Are they real?"

"Why do you doubt them?"

"I've never glimpsed them in anyone."

As they embarked on their celestial voyage, many miles away, they said salaam to virtuous souls swirling in smooth cosmic steps in the sky. Beneath them, a panorama unfolded—a canvas of olive groves, watermelon patches, orange orchards, and eggplant fields.

They descended to a land where ruins murmured tales of loss, remnants of shattered dreams strewn like autumn leaves. Grandpa, with solemn reverence, lifted a mostly torn shoe in one hand and fragments of Arabic verses in the other.

"These are the wings—hope and fear, Raja and Khawf," he muttered. 

With a deep breath, he continued, "This shoe once cradled Salwa, a 6-year-old who soared as a martyr angel last month. In Allah, her hope and fear blossomed into angelic wings."

Walking past the graveyard without any conventional headstones but adorned with abundant olive trees, Grandpa unveiled, “These are the trees of virtues. The seeds are the people who once lived here. Others believed they perished, but no, they live on. Just like virtues. Each brings more fruits.”

Aban’s fingers grazed the petals of Iris haynei, and in that touch, he inhaled sincerity, melting into the core of Sidq. His eyes flickered, a stream of joy entwined with the shadows of sorrow.

“Gaza,” Grandpa breathed, his voice a poetic breeze. Aban imbibed the word, letting it seep into the fabric of his soul.

“A sanctuary of virtues, where deeds weave tales more resonant than the hushed verses of words.”

“The world is a myth, but Gaza is real”. The conversation goes on.

Flipping the page, Aban awoke to a new dawn, the wings still fluttering gently and the virtues still unfurling like buds.