Grandpa arrives to take us to the mosque. He told Dad we should do something as a family for the holiday, more than eating dinner together. I can’t remember too much about mosques from when I was little, but now it’s many years later and I’ll be able to remember things and carry the memories with me. I want it to be a positive event. Since it was Grandpa’s idea, and also it’s his mosque, I’m sure he’ll act domineering during this excursion. Now that he and Mom are okay again, I hope he won’t say or do anything else that will piss us off.

We’re going to go in Grandpa’s car. Yikes. There are three seats in the back of his car, which means we can all fit in. He knocks down a garbage can and I pick it up as if I’m his personal gofer (I’m the one who usually cleans up his parking messes). Mom has a duffel bag with our praying gear of mats and clothes, which she puts in the trunk. We’re all dressed conservatively, with our arms and legs covered. The women all wear scarves. I tug and pull at mine since I’m not used to having my hair covered. We have to enter a mosque in modesty.

The three of us crowd into the back of Grandpa’s car. Mom, Dad, and I shuffle around, elbows in ribs, until we’re all comfortable and are able to buckle our seat belts. Grandma turns around and gives us a crooked smile. She has on a navy scarf, which looks black inside the car, and dark sunglasses. I’m spooked by the way she looks, as if she’s ushering us into a terrible time. It’s just the lack of light when we drive past trees, because she looks like her usual self in the sunlight.

“Almira, you look so pretty today,” Grandma says in her heavily accented English. “When we find you a husband?”

Awkward silence follows. My mouth drops open.

Mom grunts out an artificial laugh and says, “That’s light years away, really. We have so much time to discuss that.”

“Almira is getting to that age,” Grandma presses on.

“We can all think about that after she finishes medical school,” Dad says.

I don’t want to become a doctor, but okay. That means Dad thinks I should be in my mid-twenties when I get married. That gives me plenty of time to break it to them gently that I like boys, think about them all day, and some of them even kiss me without my parents’ permission, away from their presence. It’s no longer the days of yore, when Muslim girls had to be chaperoned all day. And we aren’t in their home countries where that can happen. I’m living free in America. And with the exception of my friends rooting for me, I’m pretty much alone in the pursuit of a relationship.

Mom pleads with Grandpa to turn on the radio, and he finally does. James Brown’s “Living in America” comes on, which echoes my thoughts. Mom begins to sing in her off-key, cats-drowning-in-a-pool voice.

We arrive at a miniature mosque. Actually, the building isn’t small but regular-sized, and shaped like a mosque from the Middle East. It has a dome and a minaret, but they fit the scope of the building. The mosque pictures I’ve seen look majestic, but the size of this mosque is just right for Coral Gables. There’s swirly Arabic writing on the front door. Below the writing is the English translation: Coral Gables Islamic Center. It’s all very modern, and very Miami.

The door has squares of glass, and behind them I see a few dozen people milling around. We go inside to join them. There are women in headscarves, teenagers with earphones dangling from their heads, and a mix of clean-shaven and heavily bearded men. Someone is ushering all of us further into the mosque. Men are moving to the right and women are going to the left. I’m moving with the wave, unsure of what I’m doing. It’s like the first day of school, not knowing where all the room numbers are but following the people who share my schedule.

The women all go to a massive locker room/restroom. There are many stalls, sinks, and benches—anything a woman needs to wash up and change clothes for praying. We take turns. There’s a mixture of perfume and soap scents swirling around me, the same way different languages blend together. I hear Arabic, Persian, and Urdu, as well as languages that I can’t identify. Skin colors run from milky white to coffee colored. Women who’ve just arrived come in to catch up with those of us who are done. Several people stop to kiss Mom and Grandma’s cheeks, as well as mine.

Mom and Grandma lead me to the praying center. I’m wearing a white headscarf and a beige dress. My ankles and wrists are covered. For some reason, those bony knobs are not allowed to be seen during prayer; that’s what Mom told me. Mom brought mats that look Egyptian and ancient with their geometric patterns. I have my praying mat under my arm, as well as my socks which I’ll put on once the mat is out. I’ll be completely covered, except for my hands and face. Thank God the building is heavily air conditioned.

Loud chanting blasts through speakers that I can’t locate. It’s the call to prayer. It sounds like a lot of wailing, but Mom says it’s in Arabic. I shiver. It sounds beautiful, the same way an opera song is incomprehensible but mesmerizing. It’s time to gather.

When we get to the back of the mosque, we see the entrance of a massive room that has curved walls rather than the flatness and angles of a normal room. Everyone has left their shoes in the lobby, so we’re all barefoot. Grandma explains to me that men pray in the front and women in the back. There are several rows of men unrolling their praying mats, and then us females. The men wear loose, flowing pajama-looking clothes. Some have their heads bare and others have light-colored caps called kufis. I’m too close to a woman in front of me, and I back away as she unrolls her mat. I unroll my mat in the same direction as everyone else’s, since we all have to face Mecca when we pray. Now we’re ready.

An imam in the front is going to lead the prayer. I feel nervous because I haven’t prayed in ages. Fasting is hard as it is, and to add praying on top of that seems like another difficulty. I look at the dozens of people around me who are ready. They seem purposeful … and calm. The whole atmosphere becomes very calm, as if no one has any worries, no harassing classmates, no shrill bosses, nothing on the outside that can interfere with the moment. Sunlight streams in from the large windows, warming us through the heavy air conditioning. My nerves settle down. I’ll get through this. Mom and Grandma are nearby to help me if I make any mistakes.

The imam recites the prayers, and none of us utter a word. When praying by myself, I say the prayers out loud or in a whisper. But in a mosque, only one voice is needed at a mutual gathering. My anxiety leaves me, because all we have to do in group prayer is listen to the imam and make the proper movements. Whatever I had forgotten is remembered again. The first thing I remember is Allahu Akbar, God is Great. The imam emphatically says it when the prayer calls for the phrase. The movements also come back to me, even though I lag a second or two behind everyone else. Still, I get on my knees, place my forehead to the floor, stand up, place my hands across my stomach … everyone is moving the same way, from the short children to the tall adults.

Afterwards, some people stay behind to read the Koran. Others put on their shoes and leave. The sun shines brightly while it’s low in the sky. It will be sunset soon. Time to eat. Grandpa finds us and says, “One of the men talked about how he owns a restaurant close to here. Most of us will be going.”

Mom and Dad agree to go. The parking lot is getting crowded. We hung out too long talking to old friends, and then the people who were reading the Koran flood the lot. I look at the sun. It’s taking forever to set. Because I’m hungry, the momentary traffic makes time slow down. Grandpa drives the short distance of three blocks to a restaurant claiming in neon that it’s the Best Turkish Grill in South Florida.

Inside, there’s an alcove of adjoining tables that have been reserved for us. Everyone who came earlier, and who isn’t from the mosque, sits on the outskirts near the windows. We sit down. Grandpa explains that everyone will pay a flat fee since we’re all going to eat the same thing. There’s no time for waiters and waitresses to ask us what we want. Some of them, in their white aprons and black shoes, circle around us and fill our water glasses. I’m not the only one thirstily eyeing the water. The smell of food has my stomach tied in knots.

“When can we eat?” I whisper to Mom.

“Soon,” she says. She’s still wearing a headscarf and so am I, since we’re still with the mosque crowd.

“Mom, how come we don’t do this more often?”

She looks surprised. It’s shocking, since I’ve never asked to go to the mosque before. I used to think it was a chore, but it’s cool praying together and doing something with my family afterwards. And the food smells delicious. It’s awesome that we’re ending an evening of prayer by going to a restaurant serving authentic Middle Eastern food. Mom’s food tastes too American. She cuts corners, using tomato sauce, mashed potato mix, and all the other time-saving ingredients that housewives all over the country use. The waiters are bringing our food to us. Bowls of heaping kofta, steaming rice, and vegetables are brought to the center of our tables. The imam is here and he stands up to say something. He wears an elegant suit that goes well with his cap and his weathered, brown face. He speaks a mix of English and Arabic.

“Massa el kheer. I would like to congratulate all of you on your patience and strength as you fast during this glorious month … ” He tells us anecdotes about past Ramadans and Eids and his time in the United States; then he ends with a short prayer (I can tell it’s a prayer since he’s praising God, Allahu Akbar). Then we can officially eat.

Hands, forks, and spoons empty the dishes. I scoop food on my plate, passing the serving dishes to Mom and Dad. None of us are rude or beastly. It isn’t like we’re elbowing each other or eating like boors, but the food disappears rapidly. The other people—the non-Muslims—stare. I don’t blame them. I’m staring, too, as I eat. People spoon the remaining food onto their plates. Waitresses bustle to give us more water. I drink my glass in three slurps since I’m so thirsty. There isn’t much talking. Just eating and more eating.

More food is brought out for seconds, but this time we aren’t in a rush to take it. I slink down in my seat when I’m full. My scarf inches down my back and becomes looser around my neck. I rest my feet against a table leg. This evening is much better than I thought it would be. It’s nice to pray and eat together. It’s better than surfing the net and IM’ing all night. It’s also making me aware of everything I’m learning about my religion and myself during this fast.

Fasting makes you think about what it takes to do it. Not many people can do it. You have to learn to become a very patient person, which is hard to do. Sometimes I’m impatient when a person doesn’t text message me back. I stare at my phone, wondering when this person is going to text me when I texted her five minutes ago. It seems frivolous, but that’s just how it is. My friend Raul had his cell phone confiscated ten minutes before lunchtime because he was text messaging under his desk and the teacher caught him. Why couldn’t he have waited ten measly minutes to do that? Because of our impatience, our age, this fast world we live in.

Even my parents and Grandpa talk about how fast the world is. Dad says he used a pay phone when he was young and sometimes he had to wait in a line to use it. I’ve never touched a pay phone in my life. Grandpa told me stories about when he lived in Syria and had to wait weeks for airmail to be sent to him. This was decades before email. Dad had a typewriter in high school and it took forever to type and correct papers with Wite-Out, but Microsoft Office made everything easier. There are so many examples of things made easier and faster, compared to my parents’ and grandparents’ time.

So these days, we want things now. Fasting tells us we have to wait. Here I am, living in a world that’s quick as lightning, and I have to wait to eat. Fasting also teaches me to be humble. It makes me wonder about all the starving people in the world. I starve during the day, with my stomach rumbling, and some people go through that for days, weeks, and months. The same goes for water, because there are thirsty people in this world, too. Fasting makes me think about myself and others. It’s a sacrifice. Don’t eat for your religion. I show God that I can temporarily live without the very things—food and water—that make me live in the first place.

“More water, miss?” a waiter asks.

“Yes, please,” I say.

I notice a huge stain on the front of my long-sleeved shirt, and smaller stains on my skirt. Grandpa sits across from me and notices them, too. Normally he’d criticize me for my sloppiness. Instead, he smiles at me and says that the food was irresistible. It was.