Dear Bayan,

Address letters to my cousin whose just passed away. They're not much of anything.

Dear Bayan,

I’m here on vacation in Florida and we’ve just received the news…but we’re on vacation and you’re gone and I think you should be on vacation, not us. I’m looking at the view, the ocean wrapping around the windows and it’s flowing and it looks like blood. All blood. Flowing blood in waves from your head like it did when the car flipped four times. You died on impact. And I hope you’re on vacation, looking at an ocean because I think you deserve to be on vacation looking at an ocean. A blue one, not this blood one that I can’t get away from. I’m shutting the curtains.

 

 

Dear Bayan,

I love you I love you I love you I love you. I texted you to tell you but I don’t know where your phone will ring now. In your dorm? In your families flat in Abu Dhabi? Or will it be silent? Is it destroyed? Will it ring at all? I love you I love you I love you I love you. Please hear me.

 

Dear Bayan,

When someone’s born, we eat. When someone graduates, we eat. When someone dies, I guess we eat. Such is the Arab way. We’re in Florida, but still, we heat leftover lamb chops, chicken scewers, fetteh and grilled vegetables. We never have that romantical heart ache where you lose your appetite. In fact, we eat to relieve the pain. Such is the Alsamsam way. But now we eat in honor of your life because, ma sha allah, you would exclaim to these lamb chops. Bayan, oh Bayan, you’d enjoy these lamb chops.

 

Dear Bayan,

My dad yelled at you about your credit hours and your GPA just last week. He yelled at you like you were a son. It’s like you already knew. You took it lightly; you had already checked out for break, but I don’t think even you knew that your break would last a bit longer than anyone imagined. Just a bit, only a lifetime really. I said earlier that I thought you should be on vacation, not me, but I realized just now that you are on vacation. Maybe it’s an eternal vacation, and that makes me smile.

 

Dear Bayan,

They keep saying that you’re dead… dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead dead. The word starts to lose its meaning if they keep saying it. It doesn’t even sound like a word anymore. It’s not a pretty word. It’s a final word: one flat, hard, final syllable. It’s a dead word, and it’s definitely not a word that describes you my dear cousin.

 

Dear Bayan,

All we are is negative space, isn’t it? You’d know that better than all of us now.

 

Dear Bayan,

My mom keeps talking about you like you can’t hear her! Hahahahaha she is so silly talking like you’re not around, like you’re not listening. “Silly boys” she says and I just want her to shut up and stop calling you silly; she’s silly. I just want her to shut up shut up shut up Shut Up Shut Up SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP I DON’T WANT HER TO TALK ABOUT YOU AND SHE KEEPS TALKING ABOUT YOU JUST SHUT UP!

 

Dear Bayan,

Life is so fragile, and it’s unfortunate really that the only snippet of existence that makes us realize the substance of our being is death itself. We get so preoccupied that we forget the importance of the life we’re living. This sounds so simple and so cliché, but you never really get it, never REALLY understand it and soak it in until you feel the emptiness of a death so close to you. I love you Bayan, for everything that you are, but mostly I love you for showing me that I need to live my life.

 

Dear Bayan,

This is the text I sent to your mother, and I know words can’t do much, but I tried:

“I’m absolutely shocked and heartbroken for the loss of Bayan. I can’t even imagine the strength you must have to hold your family together as well as take the time to grieve for yourself. Remember to take deep breaths and know that your family over here in the states is mourning with you. Bayan and the rest of your family will remain on our minds. I love you, Bana, and I hope that we have the opportunity to visit soon. “

 

This is the kind text that she sent back, but I’m worried that she doesn’t seem to be showing much emotion: “Many thanks dear..So kind of you to send this message. Wish you all the best in life. Stay close to your family and enjoy it. Life is too short. Don’t forget to stay close to god too.”

 

And I sent a text to you even though I know you’ll never read it…

 

Dear Bayan,

The pink sun is sinking into the ocean and the reality of you being gone is sinking in. Slowly, drip by drip, the sun lowers and then it’s pink and then it melts and then all it once it’s gone and you’re gone.

 

Dear Bayan,

My dear cousin, I can’t even wrap my head around the mere fact that I’ll never see you again. You’ll never teach me the names of all of the soccer players; we’ll never smoke hookah together, we’ll never walk down the street to get shawarma together or go to Aboo Abdou to get smoothies. I can’t take full breaths and there’s a physical pain in my stomach like I’ve been rammed by a ten ton truck. Everything I do now, I’ll do for you. I’ll live carefree because that’s the way that you lived. Nothing can bring you back, but your memories will transcend. I love you eternally, and if you’re listening, I want you to know that I’m thinking about you, and ma shah allah, you were a wonderful, crazy boy and an amazing man. Rest in Peace.

 

Dear Bayan,

It happens every five minutes that I remember again and my brain says to me “bayan is dead” in the voice of someone else, someone that isn’t me. It’s like those times when you start to notice you’re breathing and then you breathe and can’t tell if it’s normal or if you’re breathing differently because you’ve noticed it. Once my brain reminds me of it, it doesn’t go away, it just repeats and I stare at a wall and your face is engraved into the white in the back of my mind. It’s etched there perfectly with your goofy expression. I don’t know if the picture was even that clear when you were alive. And then it goes away and I think about something else for approximately five seconds before it comes again…”Bayan is dead” and it’s still a dream.

 

Dear Bayan,

I don’t like when people say “I’m sorry for your loss.” It’s not like you fell out of my f*****g pocket. I’m not going to retrace my steps and find you lying there so I can pick you up and put you back where you belong. I didn’t lose you, you’re just gone.

 

Dear Bayan,

They buried you right away. You were gone last night and in the ground by noon. We prayed for you. I don’t pray often but everything flooded back to me today and I prayed for you. I decided that I think it’s nice that they bury you so soon. You’ll be happy, and maybe you’ll move on quicker, more naturally. No chemicals or refrigerators. I prayed for you.

 

Dear Bayan,

Our family’s not the normal kind with fifty seven cousins; on baba’s side it was just you and your two brothers, and that’s it. I’m not sure if that would make a difference, but now I’m telling myself that this is worse for me than when others lose a cousin because there were only three and now two.

 

Dear Bayan,

The scene yesterday when I found out keeps running through my mind. It doesn’t roll through, confused, like a grey Chicago cloud. It’s as vivid and clear as Pensacola beach. Ironic. I was sitting on a chair and baba was on the phone and he looked over to me and said “Bayan” and then he signed by pulling his rigid hand across his neck to signify death. All I could say was, what? And he just nodded and said “Bayan” again. He covered his face with the poolside towel. It was sunny as ever and the scene around us was cheerful and mellow, but suddenly the air around us had become rigid and unbreathable and I kept thinking of how wonderful it would be to jump straight into the ocean. I think the water would be easier to take in. My mom and sister were talking but I heard nothing. My entire body felt limp and heavy like lead had been laden throughout my body. It’s so clear. I can still feel it. It was so sunny, but the sun was evil. The kids were having fun in the pool, but pool was swallowing the kids. The adults were socializing, but the alcohol was making them mad and the sun was leathering their skin and everything was warping and morphing and my dad looked like you and my mom disappeared and the pool was a black hole and the ocean was the place to be the only place was the ocean so that’s where I went.

Dear Bayan,

Remember that day that spain won the world cup? There were so many people and cars on the street with espana flags shouting. You had taught me the fifa world cup song so we sand it along with the television and then we all went to aboo abdou to get smoothies which he’d created specifically for this occasion.

 

Dear Bayan,

You and your brothers used to wear matching clothes… that’s the way I’ll remember you: dorky and matching to your brothers.

 

Dear Bayan,

I guess I just don’t understand how the rest of my family is just okay and happy right now. How can they be happy? How can they tan? How can they laugh freely? I don’t get it. Not at all. I just want to sleep and be in the dark and they’re ok and in the sun and I want to cry but the tears aren’t coming because I’m afraid once they start, they won’t stop.

 

Dear Bayan,

My dad is on the phone with your mom. It scares me because I don’t think Lina and I will ever have that kind of relationship. I don’t think she’ll call me.

 

Dear Bayan,

As we grow, the world grows with us. Jeneen looks out the window of the airplane and sees a building that looks similar to her school building and she say “hey look guys, it’s towline! It’s my school!” little does she know, we’re in Chicago and about fourty minutes from her school. Your world felt as expanded as it could get, an oh so humble eighteen year old, but it had a lot of room to grow still, and so did you.

 

Dear Bayan,

It gets harder past one AM to forget to remember and remember to forget.