Kelly Talbot After the Apocalypse, Day 114 Rachid stopped pedaling his bicycle and looked toward the sky. The sun’s halo glowed brilliantly along the roof of a Denver skyscraper on the west side of the street. It was after noon for sure. He stepped off his bike, put down the kickstand, and removed his backpack. He did his best to estimate the direction where east by northeast might be. Dad would have known the right direction. His jaw tightened in irritation. Then shame and sorrow scrunched his eyes. He resolved not to cry and relaxed his face. He unrolled his prayer mat and cleared his mind of such thoughts, focusing on his prayers. He used to hate praying. It felt like some duty that had been thrust upon him by a quirk of cultural identity, and he had resented it. He had always performed the prayers mechanically by rote, practically leaping from his mat when he finished them. Now it was different. Praying filled him with a profound sense of peace. It cleared his mind and his heart. He felt closer to Allah now. Even so, he wasn’t sure precisely where Mecca was or what time he should be praying. He was pretty confident that Allah would forgive him for that, as he had no way of really knowing. And there were no people left to judge him, Muslim or otherwise, in all of Denver. Maybe America. Maybe even the world. In that sense, he was finally free. And yet, Rachid could still imagine what many Muslims might say, particularly from the Middle East. That he wasn’t a “real” Muslim. That he was an American impostor. Who the hell were they to judge him, anyway? His relationship with Allah was between him and Allah. And he knew it. There was no one left to force Rachid to be whoever they wanted him to be. He pondered this for a moment. Who did he want to be? Now that he was free of his father’s overbearing nature, the prejudice of Christians and Jews, the stereotypes foisted on him by America, and the constant appraisal of his worth by fellow Muslims, what did he actually want? Rachid slowly rolled up his prayer mat and strapped it to his backpack. As he climbed onto his bike, he remembered where the Denver Public Library was over by North Lincoln Street. They surely must have Aramaic-English dictionaries, Qu’rans, and books about Islam. He could learn to pray properly, not because anyone said to, but because it was a way of showing Allah that he loved Him. He would become his own imam. A cool breeze blew through his hair, refreshing him. He gazed upward toward heaven. The sky was a deep blue sapphire, unmarred by a single cloud. It was breathtaking.
131
