To Abdi, from Seward

Dear Abdi,
I want to write something for you. I want to convey to you just how much you are on my mind the past several months. I was on my way to Seward Alaska for the season. The summer season, when I heard the news. I was on the bus and we had just gotten to Kenai Lake. I know you have never seen it before but I am not sure I have either. Because the water never seems real when I am looking at it. But I see you and its almost daily. I know that I have never met you but I feel you. Almost daily.
You left behind a young wife and a family. I left behind my family too, though that was years ago and under less grim circumstances. Your cousin Lufta, my best friend, was the one to tell me the news. Your other cousin, her sister, was en route to America from Kenya that same day. Lufta was in Ohio. I was in Alaska. You were in Nebraska. You and I both were in Seward. Even now as I write these curious and intertwined events, it is hard to digest.
Lufta had dropped me off at the airport. The next day, I called her to check in, let her know that I had left Anchorage for Seward. Reception was very spotty but she was able to get the words out.
“Dude, my cousin died this morning”, she said.
“What?”
“Yes, in f****** Seward Nebraska!”
My heart stopped for a moment as I looked around. I recall a few days ago talking to her about the location of Seward Alaska. Lufta had laughed at the strangeness of the name. We never thought that we would be sharing the name in this way.
As you know Lufta is not a crier. She works as a Respiratory Nurse at a Level 1 trauma center and encounters death almost daily. She is also one of the most compassionate people you may meet. Even in her shock, I recall her telling me that she wanted to make sure the people back home in Somalia, including your mother, do not tell her sister about the news while she was traveling. Lufta was afraid the shock of your death would mess her up. I agreed with her.
You were a truck driver and had been in really bad car accident that claimed four other lives on I-80 that fateful Sunday. I still remember getting to Seward and looking up the accident online. I typed in “Accident in Seward Nebraska, today” and there you were with your semi in flames on a highway that appeared to be from doomsday.
You do not know this about me but I am a very sensitive and auspicious person. I internalize things like this. It’s just in my nature. I also have a very close attachment to death. Its very personal and stems from my own losses. You see, you and I do not just share a country of origin. Our stories could not be more different. Our lives, our choices, everything, is different but that Sunday changed it all. Perhaps this is why I see and feel you all the time. That day, Seward was Seward. For a moment, I could not tell where my new life, albeit temporary, had begun and yours had ended.
You see Abdi, I came to Seward to live more. You went there to die. And I just cannot shake that dichotomy.
A couple days later, I had walked into a local bookstore in downtown Seward. The owner was a gentle middle aged woman with an infectious smile. We talked for a couple hours until it was time to turn the ‘Open’ sign around. We talked about everything. Life, love, politics, Alaska and everything in between. I had mentioned to her that I was a writer and she quickly advised me to write for the local, free paper in Seward. She passed on the owner’s number.
I found myself bringing you up. She must of heard the pain and confusion in my voice because her face softened and she said something I will never forget. I do not remember her exact words but I remember they pierced me. Something along the lines of “You know, you can’t internalize this, right?”.
She was not just referring to the Seward to Seward thing but all of it. This woman whom I have never met was reminding me to live despite your untimely and coincidental death. I nodded my head, not knowing whether to cry or smile at her words. People underestimate the power of their words. That woman saved me that day. Those words saved me from a rabbit hole that I know all too well.
I pass by the bookstore weekly. I have not been back since that day. Its not surprising because I have not brought up your name to Lufta since that weekend either and we talk all the time. It’s not that we are trying to avoid it. We cannot avoid it, Abdi. We would never avoid you. I think its more like Kenai Lake. We are just not sure if its real. That’s the thing with grief, even in its very physical reality, it does not seem real.
In one month’s time, I will be leaving Seward and heading back to New York. I am taking that same bus again with that same driver and that same route. When I see the glacier waters of Kenai Lake, I will think of you and smile. And as I write these words, you are no longer an internalized secret that I carry in my heart suitcase. You are Abdiaziz Jama and my bags are a little lighter.
