My father is an ophthalmologist
a poem on my dad. Also you might be disturbed by the picture of the eye in the end, because it is in surgical conditions. (no blood tho)
Under his silver scalpel,
lies the eye of an old man
who once had the ability
to let light seep in through his lens,
like how the morning sunlight floods
in the kitchen through the window,
and all you could ever feel is
warmth in your heart.
In his eye, there is a barrier to this light,
a cataract,
so now he cannot witness the golden rays of his beloved and
the gleaming smile of his granddaughter.
He cannot absorb the words of
his musty books and newspapers,
and he cannot watch the swift birds
in the blue skies.
He cannot visit the very own expanding galaxy he discovered.
So now,
this barrier in his eye needs to be removed,
which means the lens need to be broken apart
and then replaced, with a synthetic one.
The cataract fragments into small, shiny particles,
that freely orbit around his dark pupil—a broken solar system.
My father,
who does not start the surgery without reciting Allah's name,
knows that he has no power to cure,
except by His will.
In 20 minutes or so,
the man will have a pair of new lenses,
and in a few days he will tear up and melt
at the sight of his singing stars,
and soon all the doors to light will be opened again.
His universe will begin to expand faster than ever.
Sunlight bathes in my father's blood.
through the veins of his large
but delicate hands,
so filled with warmth.
One day,
while watching National Geographic on the TV,
he held my hands and examined each finger.
And I almost felt the heat of his sunlight slithering around my cold veins,
lighting up the darkest skies of my soul.
With a smile lit up he said,
“Your hands, they are surgeon hands. You know, we can tell when a doctor is a surgeon or not. And you'll be a great one inshaaAllah."
I fear the day my sun will explode into a supernova,
leaving my everlasting solar system dark and still.
love,
afifa
LOVING THE SPACE COMPARISONS