Some thoughts about my little brother who died during miscarriage.
When I look at pictures of me and my older brother, I feel someone else is supposed to belong in those pictures smiling with us. That person is my little brother who died during miscarriage.
I was still young and I didn't remember much, but as I got older my mom told me she had miscarriage on her third child, my now dead little brother.
We never named him, but we decided to call him Ibrahim. But… he's not there in my mind at all. I could never picture his face or how he looked like.
How I wished I could hold him in my arms, and tease him through the years he grew up.
But he never got the chance to… I wonder how old would he be at this time?
During my mom's pregnancy and giving birth to him, I was sick in the hospital. Apparently my mom and dad were distressed so badly… their daughter is sick and new child in danger.
Coming out of my mom's womb, his eyes didn't open.
He couldn't see the world.
Nor he couldn't live to see his mother crying over him and his father regretting that he could not love him dearly.
He couldn't meet his older brother who would be his first friend, mentor, and role model, nor his older sister who would care and love him so much.
I felt sad about these things… that he would never experience things as he is not here in the world. But Allah gave us to him for a short while and took him back to test us, and I will always remember.
My little baby brother… I'll always cherish and remember you.