Six months

Six Months Without Sana: The Weight of Time and the Number 27 Today marks six months since Sana left us. Six months since our world changed forever. And in our family, the number 27 keeps weaving itself into our story. Maahir’s, Mia’s, and my birthdays all fall on the 27th. Sana passed away on the 27th. Should I think of 27 as good or bad? It’s hard to say. It feels like a number that holds so much significance, both joyful and heartbreaking. Time, they say, moves quickly. But for grieving parents, it feels like it drags, heavy and unyielding. From the outside, it might look like we’re “moving on.” After all, we’ve relocated to Chicago, bought a home, and I’ve started working again. We’re driving to Michigan for Thanksgiving this week and will travel to see family back home in December. To someone looking in, it might seem like we’re rebuilding our lives. But appearances are deceptive. What people don’t see is that every second, every minute, every breath carries Sana’s memory. Every moment is a reminder of her absence. It’s a space we will never truly leave, a void that will always be with us. Yesterday, I received a message from a mover in New York, someone who had helped Sana with her moves. He was a kind, compassionate man who knew she was in the hospital. I had referred him to a friend, and he messaged me to thank me and to ask how Sana was doing. When I told him she had passed, he was shocked. Even people who barely knew her are still in disbelief. Their shock makes my own grief feel justified. How could I not feel this way when even the smallest interactions with her had such a profound impact on others? Yesterday, I also made a step I had been avoiding for months—I finally started using her phone. It’s a newer model than mine, and she was so excited when she bought it. I remember that day clearly. We were together, and she insisted I upgrade to the same one. She was so persistent, full of excitement about her new device. I could never have imagined that six months later, I’d be holding it with a mixture of pain and love, knowing it was once hers. If using her phone, moving to a new city, or returning to work is considered “moving on,” then yes, I am moving on. But in truth, I am not. I am simply learning to exist in a world without her physical presence. Grief is not something you overcome; it’s something you learn to carry. For me, “moving on” doesn’t mean forgetting Sana or letting her go. It means carrying her with me, in my thoughts, my actions, and my memories. As I reflect on these six months, I realize that the number 27, though bittersweet, connects us all. It reminds me that she will always be a part of our story, woven into every moment, every milestone, and every memory. And in that, she will live on forever.