Sojourn in Seattle

Seattle came as a reprieve for the both of us: you had just been re-diagnosed after spending a full year in remission, and wanted to do something radical to take your mind off of things before your next round of treatment. I had just moved to Seattle only a month prior and was feeling rattled by the adjustment period, having forfeited Atlanta’s familiar warmth and Southern amiability in exchange for a new career in the pacific northwest, which was accompanied by gray skies and a perpetual drizzle. I didn’t know a soul in Washington, and my newfound solitude felt painfully disarming. I suppose we both needed a fresh start and good company. Your trip came at a crucial time for the both of us - we were able to give each other the same camaraderie and support that lifted our spirits when we were young.

I picked you up from the light rail and navigated us two blocks in the wrong direction before course-correcting our route back to my apartment. It was 1am by the time we got back to the apartment, and yet we still managed to chat for over an hour, falling back into a rhythm of conversation in that colloquial fashion that old friends do, as if the months apart were just a minor ellipsis. You told me that you’d met a girl and were falling in love all over again. I told you about the boy I had been smitten for who had ghosted me recently. You told me you had started a new job. I told you how surreal it felt to be living out west. Round and round our stories went until we could hardly hold our eyes open. This was how most of our evenings transpired, getting lost in each other’s stories until they lulled us to sleep.

Over the course of the week, we hit as much of the city’s delights as we could. I showed you my favorite coffeshop that whipped up a mean mocha (your favorite). We wound through steep streets and narrow alleyways, and I pointed out boutique art studios, record stores, and bookshops. You made us stop and visit each establishment, making each shop feel as essential as the previous one, and I stood there smirking in disbelief as you managed to make a purchase from each venue: a graphic print (which you never intended to hang), a classic record (despite you not owning a record player), a book from an author you’d never heard of (which you ended up forgetting on my nightstand). “We gotta keep the little guys afloat,” you’d tell me. “Small businesses get swallowed up without our support.”

Whatever leads you to joy, I thought to myself. To more joy, and less worry.

We tasted the town, visiting cafes, candy dispensaries, ice cream shops, making a pitstop in a coffeeshop to recharge ever so often. You filled your tiny backpack with sour gummies, gummy bears, and jelly beans. By the end of each day, we were crashing from the hyper-caffeination and sugar rush, with our feet blistering from the marathon of walking we did to cover each neighborhood, and our bellies bursting from whatever eclectic spread of food we’d scavenged for the day: ramen shops, hawaiin barbecue, fusion seafood, and sandwiches filled with fresh fair. The steady ebb and flow of joy left us feeling tired and full.

I remember the ferry ride over to Bainbridge Island, where you made an innocent bystander take a picture of us doing the iconic Titanic “I’m flying” scene, where Jack hugs Rose from behind as she extends her arms out, spread-eagle (I got to be Rose).

I remember when we climbed to the top of Gasworks Park and you started to cry. The sun shone so brightly over the harbor, the boats sailing smoothly along the bay and kites soaring high in a cloudless sky, the city skyline perfectly reflected off of the still surface of Lake Union. We held each other for a while on the top of that hill, overlooking the water. You cried and I just held onto you and we didn’t say anything and that’s all there really was to say.

When we let go of each other, we sat down and you took pictures of the bay with a smile glued ear-to-ear. That’s how I remember you - flat-bill hat turned backwards, looking through the lens of your Nikon, the small spaces between your square teeth curving up to form a happy dimple on your right cheek. We sat there just watching the world unfold on a Seattle hillside, no one and nothing at all mattering, finally feeling grateful to just be a part of the world.

You passed away quietly the following autumn, and now I’m finding that Seattle is a memory I go to in my mind from time to time to be with you. When the weight of the world feels like too much for me to bear, I go to the top of that hill in Gasworks Park and you’re still there with me. The other day, I even found that picture of us on the front of the ferry, the one where you’re hugging me from behind, my arms extended in a spread eagle. You’re Jack, I’m Rose, and we couldn’t be happier. I smiled for the first time in a while since you’ve been gone, and it made me think of you.