To The Woman At The Airport
When I came across Off Assignment’s Letter to A Stranger , I couldn’t hide my excitement. I just sat there reading letter after letter, losing myself in words that people have written to others they barely know. I was amazed at how such fleeting and ordinary encounters could open up a world of possibilities and urgently stir up one’s imagination. It felt almost like a massive pause for me, an exhale too. That in the midst of the busyness of living and our tiring chase to meet unending needs, something, someone, catches our attention and causes us to stop for just a moment. It is often a brief moment, barely recognizable, and yet, we return to it again and again. Without meaning to, we carry with us a catalogue of things from that moment: the look on their face, the body of a child moving on a swing, a distant sound, a stillness, the book they’re holding, their hands folded on their lap, the color of their clothes, the ring on their finger, their tiny gestures, their quietness, their loudness, their absentmindedness. And maybe, sometimes, their stories. We may never see them again. We may even forget them all together. But it does not take away from the fact that there was a singular moment when they caught our attention and made us think or wonder or feel something. We walk away the same, while a million little things shift within us. And so I thought I’d write a letter to a stranger too, reflecting on an encounter I had at the airport in June with an older woman who sat next to me and conversed with me while we waited to board our next flight.
It feels almost unfair to call you a stranger because you shared your first name with me at the Minneapolis Airport. And yet I look back on that day, how tired we both were, the silent burdens we carried of our travels, what was shared and what was withheld, and I realize how much remains unknown to me. I want to first say thank you for taking the seat next to me, for your kind smile and warmth which immediately put me at ease. I suppose I can admit now that I was not okay. This was the last leg of my flight from Ghana. After four years of being away from my family, I got to go back to see them, and then I had to leave—again. I showed you videos of me surprising my family; you showed me photos of your family. And then you talked about the death of your husband, and then your brother. It shouldn’t surprise me, but it always does—the unfavorable timing of tragedies, how they come in like a flood, wave after wave. You think you’ve been hit, and then another strikes you right in the chest. You are down, and then you are suddenly without ground. Sinking deep. Head underwater. Shocking layers of depths. I am convinced that sometimes, people never come up for air. And so, my immediate response, after exclaiming, was to blurt out, “You shouldn’t be traveling! You should be at home, surrounded by family!” To which you smiled and said that’s exactly where you’re heading. Home.
I hope, if you’re lost in anything, it is the laughter of your grandchildren, the tangle of their arms around you in an embrace. I hope your days, while I’m sure they’ll be marked with a sorrow I cannot even begin to speak about, will also be filled with pockets of sweet exhales, the making of new memories, and the voices of people you love. And I must say, while all of that sounds lovely, I also do hope you’re able to feel all there is to feel. To open yourself to the soft places of grief. To welcome its rush of emotions and questions. To let it wash over you. To rest your hand on your chest and feel the nervous pounding of your own heart. To be human. To be.
You talked about your brother the way one learns a new thing—unsure, carefully, and with calculated eagerness. You wondered why the people we love can be so adamant about receiving our love and care. That he made it very clear he was not going to call anyone when he falls ill and actually meant it, stunned you. Sick for days all alone, and then, at last, he fell to the ground. Gone. Dead for days before being found. How desperately we all yearn to undo some endings, many of which want nothing to do with us. Thinking about your brother’s body being found and carried away made me think of my own brother in the hospital ward reaching for my sick father, helping the nurses turn him on his side while he had a seizure. I thought, no child should see this, no trembling hand of innocence should have to come this close to the terror of pain. We did serve our father although the cancer ate at him too fast, too soon. We lifted spoonfuls of soup to his lips; we cleaned the corners of his mouth where he drooled; we walked him to the bathroom, pulled down his pants; we counted his pills in our palms before giving them to him; we watched him while he slept; we watched him while his body lost all strength; we watched him, helplessly, fearfully, anxiously. It was a necessary labour that exhausted us to the bone, and also filled us with more love, more hope.
I sat next to you in the airport for hours, watched the tenderness in your eyes as you spoke about your brother, and I knew at once that you’d have done all of this for him. He knew it too, your selflessness and care. The kind of care almost that strips us of everything, breaks us to pieces when no one is watching. We give and give, pouring out all of ourselves, until the emptiness is almost tangible, heavy enough that it weakens us, too. We are all wasting away, somehow, and the hands that would do the saving are the same hands hanging limply on our sides. It is true that what we’ve lost has taken much from us, but goodness, have we learned to love even deeper, to serve wholeheartedly, and to live with a keen awareness of the passing of time, the unpredictability and mystery of our days, and the urgency and blessedness of now. Despite all that has happened and the weight of his decision to walk this path alone, I want to say it matters: your selfless thought of care, the desire for it, the deep knowing that you would stop everything to be there for someone you love. No matter what it costs.
Sometimes the people we love count the cost too.
What I didn’t say that long airport night in June was that I had just found out on my trip that my father had received his diagnosis for at least two years before he broke the news to us. That he had known all along what was coming, and kept it like a secret, stunned me. And when he did decide to tell us, calling my brothers and me into the room, the word ‘cancer’ was never mentioned. We sat on the bed, watching him fumble for words. We were clueless and unsure what to think; he was afraid. Even then, when it was getting bad, he was still gatekeeping, still willing himself to only give us what we could take because a full dose of this news would crush us. And so we were served it bit by bit, with words like ‘lymph nodes’ and ‘radiation’, and still, he would not name the terror. And neither did we. We tiptoed around the fire, never daring to come close enough to be burned. I suppose we thought if we could manage it somehow in our own little way, then we could still have some control over the outcome, or perhaps, it is the illusion of control we were seeking. Denial as a refuge. Silence as a fence. I can’t help but think of his own quiet fears, the wrestle within himself, the maddening sense of feeling as though by telling us, our whole lives would be turned upside down. The choice of silence to protect us. The agony of knowing and being alone in that knowing. The brutal devastations of loving people in ways they wouldn’t rather have.
But of course, all that is hidden in the dark, at last, comes to light. A door cracks open and a body is found. A new dawn breaks and cancer cells lay claim over every part of a man’s body. Some days death catches us completely off guard, cuts through our lives and our days with such reckless sharpness that everything bleeds. And there are the days we sit by the sick bed, suspended in disbelief, wishing the terror away while also bracing ourselves for when it comes.
