Eid of Those Years

Eid in those years was not just an occasion; it was a whole life condensed into a few days, yet its impact stayed in the heart for months. Even now, if I close my eyes, I can still hear the sounds of those days—the sound of water, the sound of laughter, and my mother waking up early in the morning saying, “There is little time, Eid is near!”

A week before Eid, the house no longer felt ordinary. Everything shifted into preparation mode. Carpets were pulled out of the rooms one by one, their dust dancing in the air, then washed with cold water and warm hands. We stood nearby, helping, sometimes just playing and getting wet. Those moments were simple, but strangely sweet. The windows were polished so clean that when you looked from outside, it felt like there was no distance between you and the sky.

The house would smell like freshness. Everything carried the scent of soap, water, and effort. Our hands would turn red, sometimes even get scratched, but there was never complaint in our voices. We would simply say Eid must be beautiful—without pain, far from sorrow, washed from all bitterness. And we did not realize that the beauty of Eid begins with those tired hands.

In between, the excitement of new clothes and hennaed hands was something else entirely. Clothes that might have been simple, yet meant the world to us. Days before Eid, we would open the bag again and again, look at the clothes, touch them, and put them back. It was as if they held a sweet secret that had to be preserved until Eid morning. At night, we would fall asleep thinking of them, and wake up with the excitement of wearing them.

Eid morning would arrive—a morning unlike any other. Its light felt softer, the air fresher, and hearts lighter. Everyone woke up earlier than usual. The sounds of greetings, laughter, and congratulations filled the house. When we wore our new clothes, it felt like we ourselves had become new, as if all sorrows stayed behind the door and only joy was allowed to enter.

Then the visits to relatives began. We would go to grandmother’s house, uncles, aunts, and cousins. Everywhere we went, doors were open and hearts even more so. Hugs that held us tightly, kisses left on our cheeks, and words full of affection. No one counted how many houses we visited or how much time passed; we simply went, laughed, sat, and enjoyed being together.

Tables were colorful, not only with fruit and sweets, but with love. Fruits were arranged in bowls, dried fruits, cookies, and everything the host had prepared with heart. But more important than all of that were the moments when everyone sat together. Elders told stories from the past, from memories. We listened, laughed, and without realizing it, stored those moments for the future in our hearts.

Eid nights were another world. The tiredness of the day disappeared in laughter. Houses were filled with sounds that are now heard less and less. Children played, adults talked, and time passed slowly and quietly. No one was in a hurry to leave, as if everyone knew these moments would pass quickly and must be held onto as much as possible.

Now, when I look at Eid, something feels missing. Everything appears the same—houses are cleaned, new clothes are bought, fruits are arranged—but that feeling, that warmth, that effortless closeness is no longer the same. Laughter is shorter, visits are fewer, and hearts feel farther apart.

I do not know when all that closeness turned into so much distance. Maybe we grew up, maybe the world changed, maybe hearts became more tired. But whatever it is, the place of those old Eids remains empty in our hearts.

Sometimes I wish I could be that child again—the one with new clothes, a heart full of excitement, hands smelling of soap and water. Running around the house again, hearing the laughter of family, and simply living without worry.

I miss it. I miss the days that were simple but complete. Days when happiness was hidden in small things—in a warm hug, a real laugh, a long night spent together.

I wish time could pause for a moment, or even return, just so we could live Eid like that once again.