The Centerpiece of the Necklace (A Short Story)

The Centerpiece of the Necklace (A Short Story)

In that family, the month of Ramadan was bound up with unforgettable memories. The father worked abroad and was away for most of the year, but the mother, may Allah have mercy on her, managed to give the month a spirit of its own that the children awaited from one year to the next.

She took care of every detail of Ramadan: the atmosphere of faith in the house, praying in congregation, the Tarawih prayers, the joy at the month’s arrival, and then the table that gathered hearts before it gathered bodies. She had a special dish that she always prepared on the first day of Ramadan, until it became a fixed tradition that never lapsed. For that reason, however many invitations their friends extended to break the fast elsewhere, the children declined them all and made sure to be home before the call to the sunset prayer. They did not want to miss the iftar their mother made with her own hands.

One year the mother heard from many of her neighbors about a custom of the townspeople, the people of her husband’s town, who broke their fast on the first day of Ramadan with a particular food. She wanted to share in that custom. But the children found the idea strange and kept teasing her in protest: nothing should change on the first day of Ramadan! She laughed, then made it up to them the next day with their beloved dish, and for years afterward they recalled the incident with laughter. Outwardly she marveled at how firmly they held on to it, but inwardly she was happy, for she saw with her own eyes the fruit of what she had planted in their hearts.

The years passed. Age began to creep, little by little, into the mother’s body and strength, without the children paying it much attention. Then came a year in which she was unwell and could not prepare the food on the first day of Ramadan. The children gathered, ordered their favorite dish from a restaurant, and sat eating it as they always had. Yet they felt that something was missing. The taste was not the same, though being together eased that feeling.

The following year, on the night of doubt, the last night of Sha’ban, the mother departed to her Creator. Sha’ban that year was thirty days long, so there was time to wash and bury her, and then the children returned to their homes to receive the first day of Ramadan. Once again they gathered around the same food they loved. But the house was silent, unlike its usual self. They sat around the table, each feeling that something immense had broken, that a link in the family’s necklace had gone missing. The food was the same food, but the taste was not the same taste. Their mother’s food had never been mere food; it was love poured into hearts before it was placed on plates.

Then they understood that a family, even when it gathers, is not complete unless the jewel that held its beads together is there. Whoever imagines that anyone can replace a mother is deluded. Yes, a man may find goodness and mercy in his wife and children, but a mother is something else. Search wherever you like: you will not find a heart like a mother’s.

That is why the Prophet ﷺ said: “May his nose be rubbed in the dust, then may his nose be rubbed in the dust, then may his nose be rubbed in the dust.” It was said: “Who, O Messenger of Allah?” He said: “The one who finds his parents in old age, one or both of them, and yet does not enter Paradise” (reported by Muslim, 2551).

The story closes with lines of poetry counted among the truest ever said about a mother:

I spend the night with memories and wake to the same; though you are gone, your image never ceases to visit me. I love you, Mother, whether near or far; I love you, Mother, even though you lie in the grave. I love you with a love surpassing that for all my dear ones, and nothing can rival a mother’s love. Farewell to the world, whose necklace has scattered, for you, O Mother, were the centerpiece of the necklace.