For We May Never Meet Again
A Poem For My Late Father
by Afdeza Monir
We were not created for everlastingness. We live in temporal phases, never knowing whether the chapter we begin our story with will end where it’s meant to — or be cut short. At every turn of the page, Allah orchestrates our meetings; nothing we encounter is coincidental. In this uncertain journey, the only certainty is death — the most sought-after meeting, as Abdullah ibn Mas’ud reminds us:
لَيْسَ لِلْمُؤْمِنِ رَاحَةٌ دُونَ لِقَاءِ اللَّه
“The believer has no true relaxation except in finally meeting Allah.” (Kitab Al-Zuhd)
Recognizing the fragility of life, the Prophet ﷺ prayed for the blessing of living to see Ramadan, knowing that each one is a gift from Allah. I never understood the weight of that blessing, taking every Ramadan for granted until the year I lost my beloved father, on March 9, 2021 — today marks the fifth year without him.
He had been diagnosed with Stage 4 prostate cancer the year before. He was distraught, yet remained positive, always saying, “Cancer is not a death sentence.” Still, I sensed the fear behind his signature laughter — a sound I now ache for. Coincidentally, that same year, the entire world endured a massive COVID lockdown.
In Malaysia, the lockdown was especially strict that masajid were off-limits. This kept my father, an avid masjid-goer who never missed a single congregational prayer, restlessly bound at home. Yet, little did I know then that the COVID pandemic was, in its own painful way, a blessing from Allah — one that bought me more time to build memories with him.
Memories Before His Passing
Sadly, 2020 became my father’s last Ramadan. He passed away just a month before Ramadan in 2021, which fell in April, following his death in March. After a few chemotherapy treatments — which he deeply loathed — he grew frail. He tried to maintain his smile, but he was in pain, bravely enduring every ache in his joints. He always wanted me near him, recounting his past as I sat beside him, watching him relive the happiest moments of his life.
Now, I share this to recount a memorable moment with him — his last Ramadan, and the Eid that followed, which remains the most beautiful I have ever experienced. The memory is still so fresh that returning to it brings tears of joy to my eyes.
My father’s last Ramadan, before the total lockdown, we had a ritual of walking to the masjid together for taraweeh. He would always wait for me, and we’d walk side by side — or sometimes ride home together in his car. That masjid, just by my parents’ home, is the very place where we later performed his janazah prayer.
As part of my father’s usual routine, he would be out early every morning to the masjid for Tahajjud. But on Eid, he would be especially dressed sharply in his new Baju Melayu, complete with sampin (traditional Malay clothing), from head to toe, scented with his cologne. We wouldn’t see him the entire morning until after the Eid prayer.
On what would become his last Eid with us, for the first time ever, we performed the Eid prayer together as a family at my parents’ home, due to the total lockdown. The intimacy of that moment is something I still can’t fully describe. It was a quiet kind of beauty, one that surpassed every other Eid I have ever known. He was in good spirits — extra cheerful, and relatively strong despite his diagnosis. None of us, not even he himself, could have imagined it would be the last.
لَتَرۡكَبُنَّ طَبَقًا عَن طَبَقٖ
You will certainly pass from one state to another (84:19)
Will grief turn to relief?
When you lose someone you love, you grasp at every fragment you can hold onto. Their meaningless scribbles on paper suddenly become precious. Their last text — even a short “No” — means more than any sentence could. Their last touch, last scent, last look — these remain etched in your soul, even as time tries to erase them.
I recount this now as a testament to the prayer of the Prophet ﷺ — that we never truly know whether we will meet Ramadan again. Meeting Ramadan is not guaranteed, just as seeing the ones we love again in this life is not guaranteed. Yet the Prophet ﷺ also taught that those who love one another for the sake of Allah will be reunited under His mercy — a reminder that true love is never an ending.
Living means accepting that loss is inevitable. And dying is a release from the painful world that binds us to everything temporary — where sorrow reaches its finality, and we are allowed to live not only in bliss, but for eternity, with those we love.
مَا عِندَكُمْ يَنفَدُ ۖ وَمَا عِندَ ٱللَّهِ بَاقٍۢ
Whatever you have will end, but whatever Allah has is everlasting. (16:96)
Keeping Love Alive
This Ramadan, if we are ever so blessed to welcome it, many of us may experience heartbreak — an emptiness left by those we love; those we can never be with again, those we long for but will never see.
I write this to say that regardless of how our hearts ache, if Allah grants us another Ramadan, He has also granted us the chance to turn to Him — to better ourselves, and to continue making du’a for those we have loved and lost. We’ll grieve, but remain content with His decree.
Sorrow and acceptance can coexist. The Prophet ﷺ showed us that a heart can be broken and yet fully at peace with Allah’s will. He wept openly, while mourning his son, declaring:
إِنَّ الْعَيْنَ تَدْمَعُ، وَالْقَلْبَ يَحْزَنُ، وَلاَ نَقُولُ إِلاَّ مَا يَرْضَى رَبُّنَا
The eyes shed tears and the heart is grieved, but we only say what pleases our Lord (Sahih al-Bukhari)
Although this life is only temporary, we are given the chance to love — and we should never hold it back, even knowing that one day, it will return to the only One we truly belong to. We are allowed to express ourselves sincerely so we should embrace emotional honesty by following the Prophet’s ﷺ example.
My heart is at peace because I always love with everything I have. That final night with my father, he held my hand, never wanting me to leave his side. When I finally did, I turned back for one last look and said, “I love you, Abah.” I am grateful I did, for the next morning, I received the call of his passing.
The value of life is not in the number of days we spend on Earth, but in the lives we touch simply by being here. Some meetings last a moment, while others a lifetime, but if Allah has destined them, then every crossing of paths carries meaning.
Allah owns us, and He can take us back whether it is you or me — in the next minute, hour, or day. May we always cherish those we love, and those who love us, never taking anything in this life for granted, for every second in this world is Allah’s gift.
Take This Opportunity (Take Home Tips)
Let’s not let our Ramadan pass without meaning:
- Call your parents — if they are still alive, spend time with them while you still can.
- Tell the people you love that you love them — without waiting for a reason.
- Find it in your heart to forgive everyone — do this every night before going to bed.
- Make du’a for those you have lost, for those you still have, and for every person you encounter.
- Thank Allah for every waking day — each breath is a chance to turn to Him.
- Be gentle with yourself, knowing that Allah loves you — even in your weakness.
- Complain only to Allah — pour your heart out to Him, especially in the last ten nights.
A Poem I Penned Inspired by My Late Father
Life’s Lesson
Loving you taught me one truth so clear,
This life is fleeting, its end always near,
And forever with Allah is what I hold dear.
Time moves on, yet pain lingers still,
Silence does not mend, it only will,
Hide the ache my heart cannot fill.
From this prison I long to flee,
To return to Allah, I’m ready, set me free,
Where sorrow ends and my soul can be.
My love endures, pure and true,
But my heart belongs now only to You,
And I await the eternal view.
for our fathers
There was little time left between my father’s diagnosis and our goodbye. By sharing his story, I hope it may encourage awareness, earlier detection, and more time for other families.
Prostate cancer is the most common type of cancer, diagnosed in over a million men worldwide each year. Too often it grows quietly, without warning. Finding it early can save lives.
A dear friend of mine works in research dedicated to this cause. If you feel moved to support the work being done, you can learn more or donate through Prostate Cancer UK in memory of my father, and in hope for the fathers who are still here.
