Mehfil-e-Rashid

For the question that began the collection: with one hour more, what would I have said?

For Nadine and Natasha, who cannot miss what they barely knew; their father grieves it for them.

For the mischief of our love: the smiles I withheld, and the man who never stopped trying.

For the readiness that wasn't: the ledgers, the rehearsed eulogy, and the quiet that undid them.

For his last five years: the man who gave up the center of the room and found the margin was a throne.

For the friend, teacher, mentor, guide: the caravan that descended with one man.

For the lesson that arrived last: knowing everything, understanding nothing, until the house went quiet.

For his wit and mischief: the journalist in barzakh, reporting live, finally getting every answer from the source.

For the lesson that cost nothing: the stars, the birds, the whole sky, free to whoever lifts an eye.

For a love that never kept score: the man who held the door for the hundred and first time.

For his sunny side: the man who sang at every opportunity, was average at best, and never once let that stop him.

For the man who never let anyone leave on the first attempt: there was always a joke, a story or a pun, one for the road.