It was late evening and darkening outside. My younger brother and I were in my Shaykh’s room on a bed of sheepskins on the floor.
He would usually invite us to a little television every night. Something he had done since we were tiny tots.
Occasionally he would let us cuddle up together on his bed and he would sit in his chair. But tonight it was his turn for the bed.
We just as content on the floor.
Eventually the clock struck, announcing it was bed time.
We picked ourselves up off the floor, said our good nights and walked towards the door. As I was about to walk out, I threw over my shoulder a casual, “I love you” and continued out the door.
He called my name.
I bounded back into the room and he was sitting up in his bed. I walked over and he was smiling. Gently.
He took my hand and with all the kindness in the world, he said, “My dear. Don’t say ‘I love you’ unless you are saying it with meaning.”
Then he let go of my hand, smiled and told me to go off to bed.
I couldn’t have been more than 11 or 12 at the time, but I’ll never forget that day. Every ‘I love you’ that I have ever uttered since then has always been with gravity. With Love.
A Silly Little Something 