The Ramadan After

I don’t remember my mom making long shopping lists for Ramadan or planning menus or buying too much food “just in case.” There were no dramatic preparations in the kitchen at all actually, or maybe she didn't want us to feel that this is a priority.

A week before Ramadan, something would change. The house would start to look different, smell different, even sound different. She would redecorate quietly, so subtle that we can't recognise the details.

I remember she changed the curtains, brought out small lights, replaced ordinary cushions with ones we only saw once a year. And she would change too. She became calmer before Ramadan, softer, and more intentional. Her voice lowered, and the way she walked through the living room felt slower, it felt like she was already entering the month before the moon was even seen.

You could feel that she was preparing us, she wasn't preparing our plates, but our hearts.

She acted like housewife too, she would bring out her special dining set, the one that lived in the cupboard all year and no one dared to touch.

Even the table conversations were different, boys were less noisy, we told more stories, and we had more reflection.

We had our rituals with her, the Qur’an sessions, and the long discussions after iftar, stories she would tell that somehow only came out in Ramadan. Even the silence in our house during Ramadan used to feel warm.

Then she died one week before Ramadan that year and that week was not preparation. It was sad silence.

Our living room felt frozen, and the screens were off.

Me and my brothers moved like people underwater. Her dining set stayed in the cupboard. No one reached for it.

We didn’t wake up for suhoor. There were no whispers of Qur’an before the adhan. No smell of something frying in the kitchen.

We did not hear her voice saying,

“Come on, guys. Tasaharu fa inna fis-sahuri barakah.”

We did not hear her making dua out loud like she always did, stretching her words as if she wanted the corners of the house to listen carefully.

The first iftar came and the table felt wrong. The house felt smaller, very tight as if the walls had moved inward.

My brothers were quiet, too quiet. They weren’t annoying each other, or arguing over seats. They weren’t complaining about the soup she used to make every single day even though no one finished it.

For the first time, the kitchen stayed clean, because no one sneaked in to steal a bite of konafa before it was allowed. No one tasted leftovers after iftar and left crumbs everywhere. No one made a mess pretending they weren’t hungry anymore.

We fasted from everything.

We fasted from her voice.

From her dua.

From “Did you pray?”

From “Did you finish your Qur’an?”

From “Are you still hungry?”

From “Drink more water.”

From “Maghrib is coming, guys, come sit together.”

We fasted from being someone’s child in the same way.

We sat in the same room, but it was not the same room. It didn’t have her peanut beans smell. It didn’t have the mess of us staying up too late. It didn’t have that feeling of waiting for suhoor like we were adventurers.

We knew, without saying it, that Ramadan was never going to feel the same again.

Years later, me and my brothers tried to bring it back, but it never shifted the air the way she did.

Maybe we have our own rituals now. but the nostalgia is still there. Mom didn’t teach us her recipes, i wish she did, but she taught us how Ramadan should feel.

If your mother is still alive this Ramadan, sit closer to her at the table. Listen when she repeats herself. Let her complain about the soup. Let her ask if you prayed.