Conveyor belt

When the Conveyor Belt Starts Moving After Sana’s passing, I look at life differently. The world has not changed—but my lens has. My thoughts feel more intense, more layered, sometimes heavier. I’m not sure if that sharpness is grief, or if grief simply strips away the cushioning we once had. Last night I was watching a movie. There was an ordinary scene at an airport—people standing around the baggage carousel, waiting for their suitcases to appear. Round and round the belt moved. Some bags came quickly. Others took longer. Some passengers stood anxiously; some distracted themselves on their phones. Everyone waiting for their turn. And suddenly it struck me. Life is like that conveyor belt. We are all on it. We will all arrive at our moment in a timely way. It’s not first bag in, first bag out. There’s no visible pattern we can decode. No fairness algorithm that guarantees order. The belt just keeps moving. When the spinner stops and your name comes up—that’s your turn. When I think about it this way, I realize Sana’s turn came early. Much earlier than a mother ever imagines for her child. And I don’t know when it will be mine. Or yours. Or anyone’s. None of us do. We *know* this truth intellectually. We say it casually: “Life is short.” But knowing it and living like we know it are two very different things. We still carry grudges. We postpone kindness. We drown in trivial frustrations. We assume time is something stored safely in the overhead compartment. I remember once telling Sana something similar. I told her we never really know when it’s our turn. She listened, then rolled her eyes in that way only she could—half amused, half skeptical. “If it’s already decided,” she said, “then why do you pray?” It was such a Sana question. Direct. Logical. Unafraid. I didn’t have a perfectly packaged answer then. Maybe I still don’t. But now, after her, I think prayer isn’t about changing the conveyor belt. It’s about how we stand beside it. It’s about softening our hearts while we wait. It’s about learning to love fiercely in the time we are given. It’s about surrender and hope existing in the same breath. Grief has made my thoughts more intense because everything feels closer to the edge of truth. The ordinary scene at an airport is no longer ordinary. It becomes a metaphor. A reminder. A whisper. We are all waiting for our names to be called.