When I hear the Azan sung, a wave of memory floods the barren space in my head. Moments of my childhood, of mosques near and far, of the pressure to love God, of trying to find myself through my dad’s empty dreams. The blink of an eye equates to a decade of denial, pain and transformation and it’s gone. All of it. I haven’t stepped into a mosque in decades. Dad has ruined our once mysteriously functional family in the name of his God. My days have taken a different turn and I’ve intrinsically moved as far away as I could from all the suffering I was put through as a child. None of it matters. I have my spirituality and faith where I know it exists and have been affected by it. But his dreams, they bring me back to that hauntingly beautiful Azan where every syllable is sung with the utmost devotion and grace. Such are the scars we carry with us.