Page 7 - My FlipBook

D i an e T e r r an a

him. And then later, when I wanted to see them, I was too
ashamed for not going earlier. I’m sure they hate me by now,
and I don’t blame them. I hate me too.
It took me forever to find his grave. I wandered endlessly
through the rows until I saw his name carved into a shining
slab of speckled granite. There was something shocking—
air-sucking, in fact—about the headstone, with the stark name

and the dates underneath.
Amir Ayman
2000-2016
There were two inscriptions, one in Arabic and one
in English:
The heart is the secret inside the secret.
—Rumi

Rumi. The mystical Sufi poet born in thirteenth-century
Afghanistan. His full name is Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī,
which I think explains why everyone just calls him Rumi.
We studied him in Mr. Singh’s class.
I read the inscription out loud. I didn’t get it. Why the
secret inside the secret?
Why did people even write epitaphs? Were they messages
for the dead person? Some kind of superstition passed down
from the ancient Egyptians? Advice to take to the afterlife?

Or were they messages for the devastated people left behind,
like me? Something inspirational to ease the pain? If so,
this one was a bust.
I didn’t cry. I couldn’t. I’ve lost the gift. But the heavy
thing inside my chest expanded until I could barely breathe.

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