Zayd’s text had been cryptic: On my way to the airport. Don’t leave until I get there. Trust me. V. important.
Had it been anybody else, I would have disregarded it, but this was Zayd. So I waited for him, waited to see what it was that was so important.
I won’t bore you with all the details of the tears and laughter, excited calls to family and friends, Islamic marriages in airport lounges in front of surprised onlookers, new tickets, and words of advice given before boarding.
But I will tell you this: I first touched Amirah when we had boarded our flight to Mexico, as man and wife. At last, I was able to kiss her fingertips and stroke the cleft in her chin. At last, I could feel her touch the mole on my left hand and caress my knuckles. At last, we could laugh about our matching trainers.
We had so much to catch up on, so much to share. But there would be time for that later. The next day, and the next day and the day after that.
In fact, we had the rest of our lives, inshallah.