I settled deeper into my black sweater, pulling my hood over my face to hide it. I was in the local coffee shop watching people come and go, letting the grief hold onto me relentlessly. I heard so much talk about so many different things - local news, family drama, a popstar, a song they listened to… One man started speaking about a celebrity. He said that the guy was his hero.

Hero.

That word made me angry, and sometimes even the anger overwhelmed the grief, and I had to leave, before the anger left me, and became visible.

Did they even know what the word hero meant? Probably not. Nowadays, hero was a word that everyone threw around. 'You’re my hero,' they’d say, or 'he’s my hero,' but their hero would consistently change, sometimes, day by day.

Did they know a hero? Had they ever met one? I had. My older brother was a hero, and now, this world was one hero less.

He could do anything. He would swing me onto his strong shoulders and run around the park as I clung to him, wrapping my arms around his forehead. He would sweat as he ran and my arms would get wet, but I didn't mind. It was fun to fly around on his shoulders.  When he got tired, he’d shift me onto his back. He never told me he got weary. Sometimes I’d have to ask him to play another game just so he wouldn’t get too tired. And then we’d run around the park some more as I chased after him, working my short legs as hard as they’d go. He was so tall and his legs were so much longer. He was definitely faster than me, but he would always slow down and I’d be able to tackle him, knock him over into the grass. Then we’d laugh awhile at how silly we were.

“You’re getting stronger and bigger,” he’d tell me as he ruffled my hair. “And you’re getting taller!”

“I’m catching up with you!”

“Ah, not quite yet!” He’d laugh.

I’d puff my cheeks out and leap to my feet. He’d flash that mischievous, foxy grin before hopping up, racing off into the distance back home. “Catch me if you can!” he would laugh. I would run like the wind, running after my brother to try and beat him to the door. We’d both rush to the door and by then I was panting to try and catch my breath, but he never used to lose his breath. I always won, but I knew he was letting me.

It would be dinnertime by then, and he would sneak a small piece of fruit off his plate and slide it over onto mine. Mother never found out. Besides, fruit was healthy for a growing boy, wasn’t it? Perhaps she knew. Mothers know everything. I learned to never try to get away with anything from her, but she didn’t seem to mind.

After dinner I would take out our prayer rugs and pray with him. His rug was big and mine was so tiny. And his voice was nice and deep. I thought it was better than all the other guys people used to listen to.

My brother was really religious. He would spend his nights praying. Sometimes I would try to stay awake and watch him but I would always fall asleep.

He used to lead the taraweeh prayers and I used to stand in the front line with my chest nearly bursting with pride. When I got tired I would sit down and he would encourage me to get up. He would say that he knew I was strong enough to pray all the rakahs. And later when I heard some boys saying that he had a nice voice I would walk up to them and tell them that he was my brother.

He helped me so much. He was there for me on my first fast, and when I finished my hifdh. And then the years passed, but our relationship seemed to never die. I grew to my teen years and he was off to college. But still, he did not forget me and always came by to visit during the weekends and holidays. We’d walk to the local park, and we’d play tag just like the old days, even though he was 25 years old. Did he feel silly running around like a kid with his shirt collar untidy and his work tie lopsided? He always reminded me of a kid, and I’d never forget the days when he spent his weekends playing hide-and-seek with a six year old. He was so kind. He seemed invincible.

Then one day something took my brother away from us. Do you know what it was? It was a car. Inside it was a careless boy, heavily intoxicated. He had fallen asleep at the wheel. And even though he hurt, my brother told me to not worry. He told me to not blame the driver, that what had happened was supposed to happen. That it was qadr. And then he smiled at me and told me that he would see me in Jannah, inshaa`Allah. I was sad and frightened that I was alone in the world, but he had told me not to worry. And when times got rough, I remember my brother’s last, childish grin that was forever inscribed on my heart.