I woke up to the sounds of a carpet being beaten on the balcony, your figure illuminated by the Alexandrian sun as you raised your arms and dust flew away into the sand below us. I cannot remember if you were hunched over or if you stood tall at that moment, but I remember rising out of my bed and realizing we were the only ones awake. Running to that balcony to reach you and your birds, whose names I never learned and whose feathers I could never tell apart, to embrace and breathe in the fresh air. Soon, I would have to leave. Soon, I would hope to return, saddened that it would take me several more years to do so. Soon, like every other time, we would part before I said goodbye. Words would flow from my mouth like songs flow from a bird as I recited my farewell, as though I had stood before a mirror to learn it. Inshallah, I would say, God willing I will fly the 5733 miles between us to visit you again.

Between Egypt and New York, there are 5733 miles. These miles are populated by water and dirt and sand and every other thing a living being may need to live. Between you and me, there are now 5733 miles of all these things and 6 feet of soil on top of a casket. I have realized that I may never learn when you died, when your funeral was, or where you were buried. More to add to the list of things I will never know about you. 

For four years you had cancer, two more years than the doctor said you would live through, and two more years for me to get used to it. That is the problem: getting used to it. You do not get used to cancer, just to the idea that it is not as dangerous. You get used to the idea that this would not separate you. And really, I was content with that facade because it meant I had as much time as possible to get to know you. I could cruise along this distance and never make it smaller because I had time. I could hang onto those memories of watching Arabic Disney channel, helping you beat the deep red carpet before my small arms got tired, and waiting out the daily blackouts with our flashlight. But I now knew that I did not have time, and I think I was more distressed about that realization than I was about you dying. In a way, I was afraid that if you left you would cease to exist. Somehow, I would forget about you, just like I always forgot to call you. 

Now that you are gone I am more afraid that I have not realized you have died. I go about my days the exact same way as before, and rarely do you cross my mind. But sometimes I lay awake in the night, the moon staring down at me through a window, and I wonder if you, like the moon, are watching me. My mother would tell me stories of spirits visiting her in her sleep—giving her premonitions or messages that always seemed to come true—and now I awaited you. I both hoped for and dreaded the possibility of this gift, one I felt so foolish believing in, coming true. Maybe, it is just another way I avoid the reality of what happened. If I keep disappointing myself with your missing presence, maybe I’ll forget that you are gone. Surely, you would not leave me with no goodbye.

Do your birds know you have died? Have they seen the body of their friend? Do they think you have abandoned them? I think we must feel the same way, me and the birds—as far as my mind is concerned you are only taking a vacation, and I am missing you terribly. I wonder about what that apartment might look like. Are your unusable chairs and china sets now covered in dust? What of your parrots? Have they been fed well, been let out of their cages, have their feathers dulled after all this time? Will I walk into that apartment with everything unchanged, except for you? Will I ever take a hijab off your vanity and give it to you before you pray? I can almost see these things in my head. Just for a moment, it is as though these 5733 miles between us were erased, and I was back on that balcony waiting for you to call me “Juju.” But I already know the answer to these questions. It will be just me and the birds. A flock abandoned, waiting to confront your impermanence.