i carry with me a kafan. dyed with the saffron prayers of Kumayl, wrapped in it fragments of Karbala’s holy soil, the garments of my final journey sit neatly folded in the back of my cupboard.

i know not who will dress me in them. is it the women who will wash me? will the men bathe my body? or will those created as i am, with their patchworked souls and bodies hold my body before it follows my soul?

let it be hands like mine that dress me for my grave. let it be my brothers who consign me to the earth i am destined for. allow me this last dignity before my soul is risen before You.