For Raeesa, my daughter across the sea
Once a year, the airport blooms,
not with flowers, but with breath held tight.
I count the steps between arrivals,
watching glass doors like sacred gates,
each suitcase a maybe, each face a prayer.
And then,
you.
You, with your tired smile and brave eyes,
you, carrying months of silence in your bones,
you, my child who left to build a life
but never left my heart.
I know the weight you carry,
the currency of sacrifice,
the quiet ache of homesickness
folded into every remittance.
You speak in strength,
but I hear the tremble beneath.
I cook your favorite meal
even when you’re not here.
I light a candle by your photo
and whisper goodnight to the stars.
I mother you in rituals now,
in memory, in hope, in the soft hum
of a kettle that still waits for two.
Once a year, we are whole again.
But every day, I love you just the same.
Across borders, across time,
you are mine,
not in presence,
but in every heartbeat
that calls your name.
đź’–Love my, Naazi Morad
