Murad and his six-year-old son, Ramy, used to watch the sunrise each morning before the war. After fleeing Palestine, however, Murad had to work night shifts often and only had time on the weekends for their favorite activity. He’d rise, exhausted but determined, and would go and sit in the park as the first scattered hues of pink and golden light appeared on the horizon.
Another man and his son usually came afterward, but this morning, they arrived early. They asked Murad if he was all right. He didn’t realize he had been crying.
“Mind if we sit here?” the father asked, his son looking curiously.
“Uh, yes, I can move,” Murad answered, wiping his eyes.
“No, you don’t have to. There’s room.”
Murad got up anyway, to leave a spot for Ramy, but paused. It had already been several years since his son had passed, yet the habit remained.