“Give them to the poor,” he said, and I saw in his eyes that he wished his request to be carried out immediately.

I rose and went to a corner of my apartment. Under a loose stone I had buried a handful of coins that were the sum total of the wealth my husband, the king of Arabia, possessed.

I took the gold and saw Ali step forward, ready to take the coins from me and fulfill the Messenger’s wishes. But I turned away from him and placed the coins in the hands of Abbas, who nodded and left to hand them out to the poor souls who still gathered at the Bench seeking alms.

I could feel Ali’s intense green eyes on me, and then he turned and followed Abbas out without a word.

A FEW HOURS LATER, I heard the melodious voice of Bilal echoing in the courtyard as he summoned the believers to noon prayers. At the lyrical calls of the Azan, my husband’s eyes opened and he rose from the bed. I looked at him in surprise and saw that his face was bathed in sweat and his graying hair shimmered with perspiration. And then I clapped my hands in joy and praised God.

The fever had broken. The Messenger of God had recovered.

I went to his side and wiped his brow with the hem of my skirt. I urged him to lie back down and rest. But he ignored me and changed into a clean white robe and reached for a stone pitcher from which he performed his ritual ablutions.

And then my husband stepped outside, standing tall and erect like the man he had always been. The worshipers had already gathered in straight lines behind Abu Bakr, who had led the prayers at the Masjid in the Prophet’s absence. But at the surprising sight of the Prophet emerging from my room, looking refreshed and recuperated, there was a tumult of shouts as the believers broke ranks and hurried to surround the man who had become the center of their whole world.

I watched from behind my hastily donned veil as the Prophet strode through the excited crowd to Abu Bakr’s side. My father looked at him with tear-filled eyes and stepped back, gesturing for the Messenger to take his place at the head of the jamaat. But my husband shook his head.

“Lead the prayers,” Muhammad said to my father, clasping his old friend’s shoulder.

Abu Bakr blinked in confusion.

“I cannot lead you in prayer. You are my master,” my father said, his voice trembling with emotion.

“Lead the prayer,” my husband repeated.

Abu Bakr hesitated and then returned to his place as imam of the Masjid. The worshipers quickly gathered behind him in perfectly straight lines, shoulder to shoulder, the feet of each man touching the feet of his neighbors in spiritual equality.

And then the Messenger of God moved to sit to the right of my father and prayed beside him. It was a strange sight, for never in my life had I seen the Prophet, our leader, pray beside any man. And then I felt my stomach twist in apprehension as I realized how the community would interpret this action and what it would mean for my gentle-hearted father, who had no desire for any authority in this world.

When the prayer was over, the Messenger rose and embraced Abu Bakr, kissing his cheeks warmly. And then he walked slowly back to my apartment, surrounded by throngs of adoring followers. As he approached the threshold of my door, I saw his face and my breath stopped. There was a white light shining on his features unlike any I had ever seen before. It was as if he were glowing like the moon, and suddenly the years fell from Muhammad’s face and he looked younger than I had ever known him. He was no longer a stately old man but a youth filled with boundless life and energy. It was as if I were seeing him in the days before the Revelation, as Khadija would have seen him in the early days of their union almost forty years before. He smiled at me, and in that moment I fell in love with him all over again.

The Messenger stopped at my door and turned to face the excited crowd of believers. He looked at them with such joy, as if each of them were the most precious person on earth to him. He raised his hand to them as if waving farewell and then turned and joined me alone in our apartment.

46

The Messenger lay down with his head against my breast. He breathed slowly and deeply, as if savoring every single breath. I felt his hand searching for mine and I squeezed his palm. His fingers caressed mine steadily, and then he lifted his face for a moment to look at me.

I looked into his black eyes, which seemed farther away than ever, and I had a strange sensation that wherever he was, I would not be able to join him. Gazing into those obsidian pupils, I saw myself reflected in their unblinking gaze. How different I looked from that little girl on her wedding night! I was nineteen years old now, tall and slender, my waist tightly curving into the muscles of my hips, my breasts full and generous, yet still untouched by an infant’s lips. It was strange seeing myself as a woman and stranger knowing that in my heart I was still a child.

The Messenger leaned close to me and we kissed. It was long and deep, and I felt my heart pouring into him. I held him close, not wanting to ever let him go. And after an eternity that was only a moment, he broke away and leaned his head so that his face was pressed against my gently beating heart.

I heard footsteps and I saw my elder brother, reconciled with his family and renamed Abdal Rahman, enter the room and greet the Messenger. Seeing my husband and me entwined in an embrace, he flushed in embarrassment and turned to leave.

And then I saw my husband raise his hand and point toward something Abdal Rahman held in his grip. A miswak, a rough toothbrush carved out of olive twigs. I saw my husband looking at the small instrument with surprising intensity and I gently asked my brother to hand it to me. Abdal Rahman did so readily and kissed the Messenger’s hands before leaving us alone.

I chewed on the miswak and moistened the rough bristles with my saliva. And then I handed the toothbrush to my husband, who began to brush his teeth with great vigor.

When he was done, he handed this miswak back to me and leaned against my bosom, closing his eyes. His breathing slowed and became rhythmic, and I assumed he must have fallen asleep.

I don’t know how long we lay like that together, two lovers who had been thrown together in a mad world and had somehow managed to come out of the chaos still bonded at the heart. After so many years of hardship and struggle, I finally felt at peace.

It was a moment that I wanted to last forever. And yet, like everything in this fleeting world, it came to an end.

I felt my husband stir and he opened his eyes. But instead of turning to me, his gaze fell upon an empty corner of the room. And then I had a strange sensation that we were not alone. There was a Presence in the apartment, and I felt the hairs on my neck stand up.

And then the Messenger spoke, his voice loud and clear and strong.

“No,” he said, as if responding to a question. “I choose the supreme communion in Paradise…with those upon whom God has showered His favors…the prophets and the saints and the martyrs and the righteous…most excellent for communion are they…”

And then I remembered what he had said to me years before. That prophets were given the choice at the moment of death whether to remain in the mortal realm or return to their Maker.

My heart began to pound wildly as I understood that the angel had given him the choice at last. And he had chosen eternity.

I wanted to scream, but no sound came out of my throat. I was frozen to the spot, unable to move as the shock of what was happening hit me in the stomach.

Muhammad, the Messenger of God, the man I loved more than any other in the world, was dying in my arms.

“O God…” I heard him say, his voice now faint and distant. “With the supreme communion…“