Hotel rooms are chilly, and no, it’s not the weather.
There is a certain lack of warmth to the place that pretends to be your home. Stacking the fridge with well familiar names just to make it seem like you filled it, a fruit basket and some chocolates as if you’ve just been to the grocer’s the day before. It’s all just a load of crap.
Sitting on the couch flipping through the channels, they only have 14 of them; three of which are running Al-Risalah. They run that every Hajj that it has forcibly become a ritual.
He stands in front of the mirror adjusting his red shmagh, “Asmaa, did u put all the ID cards in the safebox downstairs?” “yes, dad” he seldom wears dark thobes, he was wearing a dark grey one for Asr prayer. “your mother’s asleep in the other room, I’m going to the mosque now.
Its 11pm now, sitting at the overcrowded Starbucks in the hotel lobby overlooking the mosque. Every cool jeddawi is here. Having a cup of coffee next to the prophet’s grave, or am I the only one who sees it that way?