Burial at Sea
“All I wanted was to be nowhere with you.”
AUGUST 19, 2025
We planned the cruise after our first vacation together. Spring 2019… We had gone to Haifa. We swam. We lounged on the hot sand. Mount Carmel loomed behind us, green woodlands reaching to the sky. I laughed so much. I remember standing waist-deep in the water, looking at the Carmel, laughing. We were very happy. We strolled down the boardwalk, and up Wadi Nisnas, and into the harbor. We ate ice cream, then fish. A decadent choice — one you only make while on vacation. Ice cream, then fish. At the restaurant, I was still wet, as if I had carried something of the sea away with me, on my skin. We laughed, like we lived in another country. We watched the sun set. We ate ice cream again. Just to prove a point.
On the bus home, you were silent. We were returning to our chaotic city behind the wall. To a kind of prison, behind checkpoints, where highways vanish into the night. I didn’t mind. I feel at home there, comfortable. You, on the other hand, couldn’t stand belonging, staying put. Those buses took you back to family — wife, kids, a unit, a life. I was going back to no one. Back to waiting for you in my house, peering at the street from behind my pink curtains, hoping that you would show up. I was always ready. My door always open.
I remember noticing you, for the first time, walking over to our table at that bar in Ramallah, under the pine trees. There was something bright about you, something affably imperial, and that smile — warm, smug — the smile of lords.
I remember that bus ride clearly. The bus from Haifa to Jerusalem. The road shaded by pine trees. The sun shining through the trees, through the windows, dappling your face, your chest, your lap. We spent a long while in silence, as if we had spent all our laughter, all our words, back in Haifa. Then, you said, all of a sudden: “Let’s go on a cruise?” A cruise! I pictured us in matching salmon polo shirts, navy visors and sockless white loafers, rummaging through our belt bags for a couple of dollars to tip the cabin boy bringing us bottomless margaritas. (That was about the extent of what I imagined a cruise to be.)
“I get seasick,” I remember telling you as I watched the road outside, and could already feel nausea taking hold of me, just picturing myself on a boat. I suggested we go to the mountains instead. No, no, you said. You kissed me and said, come on, let’s do this. We never get to do things like that.
So we planned it, the visas and the long trip to the airport in Amman and the absurdly long flight to the other end of the world to hop on a ship that would take us even farther away. We would go in August. Because we always do what you want to do.
✺
It turns out I don’t get seasick. At least not on this floating city. I am happy. Sitting in this cabin, enclosed by its thick, milky walls. The vanity is surprisingly elegant. I like watching myself in the mirror and seeing you behind me, lying on the bed with that grimace of satisfaction on your face, as if we’ve just made love and you’re about to doze off.
I hardly know where the ship is sailing. I lost track many miles ago. There are varieties of blue I’ve never imagined. The ship is white. Dazzlingly so. The sea, behind you, fluorescent. We could be anywhere in the world. I don’t care.
The sun was shining when we boarded the ship, and the crisp air carried with it a promise of vacation — a rarefied kind of freedom that only a day at the beach can offer: the pleasure of being nowhere in particular.
“Make love!” I know. You would scoff at such a phrase. But that’s really what we did. At least, I like to think so. The fact that I agreed to this trip says something about your charm. I remember noticing you, for the first time, walking over to our table at that bar in Ramallah, under the pine trees. There was something bright about you, something affably imperial, and that smile — warm, smug — the smile of lords. Or the smile of magicians: Your charm has always been a spell or a trick.
I remember how, later that night, when it was already too late, you casually pointed out that you were married.
The sea is beautiful. You would scoff, also, at the platitude if you heard me say it (but only if I said it: If someone else said it, you would marvel with them at the beauty of the sea.) The thing about platitudes is that they’re profoundly — vertiginously — true. The sea is eternal and is beautiful and is therefore like God.
Look at me, talking to you. Rambling about eternity, God, and sun-dappled roads lined with pine trees, while the matters at hand are quite urgent. The thick, creamy walls of the cabin cannot contain us forever.
✺
You insisted we book an Oceanview. “Come on,” you said again, giving me that kiss, “we never get to do things like this.” Oceanview… Such a name — ample and wide, as if, from our room, we’d possess the whole ocean, the horizon. We would possess the view, become masters of sight. I agreed, though it was expensive, well beyond my means. I knew you would pay. You do things like that. The website advertised rooms with “commanding views” of “stunning sunrises and enchanting sunsets.”
The sun is setting now, and I have to say — it is indeed enchanting. Light bursts in through the porthole above our bed, above your face, your body. The sun melts into our cabin, and beyond, the burning sea spreads to the edges of the earth. Yes, enchanting. That is the exact word.
Urgent matters… No. Nothing is urgent anymore. I feel calm. Strange how calm I feel. Something dark shifted inside me. If you’ll allow an unpolished metaphor, my raging sea suddenly became — what do you call it when the sea is calm? I’m no good at describing the sea or its moods. I am of the people who fear nausea and who live and die in chaotic cities where pine trees perfume the air and highways vanish in the night.
I feel — expansive, oceanic.
I won’t allow myself to be punished ever again.
✺
Sometimes, when we used to plan things, the person I imagined doing these things with you was not me. It was someone like me, who possessed most of my attributes and looked like me but was different. A better, grander me. Me, but consequential.
You were still asleep when I went out for breakfast. When I came back, I figured you would be showering, or shaving. But there you were. You were gone.
The sun was shining when we boarded the ship, and the crisp air carried with it a promise of vacation — a rarefied kind of freedom that only a day at the beach can offer: the pleasure of being nowhere in particular. When the rest of our lives is spent in a specific graveyard-prison, so heavily, so inescapably here, all I wanted was to be nowhere with you. To be that other me with you here in this nowhere. The music — first on the pier, then in the ship’s corridors — wafted from the speakers and, as if merely taking a detour, drifted into our ears. It was astutely buoyant, vapid in just the right way; it conveyed comfort, nowhereness.
Everything is orange now in our cabin, including you, and the porthole is a bursting orb of orange. Outside, that same shoreless music wafts on.
Some days, I felt like I could have killed you. There was this violence inside me — my jealousy (or is it envy?) — but also something that wanted to break free from the hold you have on me. Back home, in that chaotic city, it would have been easy. Or when we went on our hikes all by ourselves in the desert, deep into the wadis and high up on the cliffs. I thought about it, sometimes. I could have shoved you. Such a simple, stupid, way to die. I could have watched you tumble down. But had I done that, I would have thrown myself down that cliff after you, felt my body bouncing against the crags and jags of the landscape, and then heard myself smash against the ground. The idea was enticing, distractingly hot — you, splat, then me, splat, a jumble of bodies and brains and blood —
But it was fantasy. My frustration speaking. I didn’t really want you dead dead. I never wanted this.
✺
I left the cabin today. There’s a florist onboard. How is that even possible? You would have had an answer. I brought you these roses. I’ll put them in a vase. Or maybe I should strew the petals around our bed, our bridal bower. How long have I been locked in this cabin — three days, four perhaps? Time flies, they say. Platitudes. Truth. Time leaves us stranded.
Three days ago, not four. I’m sure. You were still asleep when I went out for breakfast. When I came back, I figured you would be showering, or shaving. But there you were. You were gone.
Your skin is like a baby’s. Your face is lovely. You’re smiling just enough to let me know that you are well. It is so beautiful that I wish I could tell you how much I love you.
If you could, you’d rise from the dead. You’d say, quietly, “What the fuck are you doing.” And it wouldn’t be a question. It would be an order.
I am reminded of the room where I waited for you, in our big chaotic city behind a wall. It is a bit removed from the center and closer to the highways that vanish into the night. I used to hear their remote vibrations in the distance. The room rumbled and purred. It was suspended in space somewhere above that land, a twinkling light floating over these large swathes of darkness. I enjoyed turning my garlands of light on every night. It felt festive, waiting for you, in a cube lined with flickering lights.
These intense feelings I feel now are so embarrassing. I feel embarrassed, here, alone with you.
I will snuggle up between your arms later. It’s just us now. Your chest tastes like ocean.
✺
I’ve never seen you at a loss for words like that. You! You, who always interrupted. You were always right, I was always wrong — and that’s just how it was. That’s how I wanted it to be, I guess. And now here you are. Silent. Shut up. Shut up! Maybe I should close your eyes. This is all so embarrassing. I’m devastated.
I’m here, have locked myself in this cabin again, because I love you. And because I don’t want them to find you like this.
They would bury you at sea. I read it in a magazine once, that people who die at sea are buried there. I do not want that. You would not want that. If you could, you’d rise from the dead. You’d say, quietly, “What the fuck are you doing.” And it wouldn’t be a question. It would be an order.
You would want me to sit with the men, just a friend, his closest friend, and you would want me — I know this — you would want me to offer my condolences to your wife when she should be offering them to me.
So I’ll keep you hidden in this cabin with me, love. Look. I brought all these flowers. Three days ago, the housekeeper — we had our own housekeeper, just one person assigned to us, I had no idea, not a clue, before then how rich you were — the housekeeper knocked. I opened the door and said no need to come back, thank you. We are on our honeymoon, you see. She congratulated me. I gave her a very generous tip, cash from your wallet. I hung up the “Do Not Disturb” sign.
Undisturbed grave, bridal bower. O my everlasting home.
I only leave the cabin at night. The ship is never empty. Couples and small groups stroll, watch the stars, chat by the pool. Everything is ever so slightly aglow. But soon they become abstract, and the ship itself turns into squares of blue nestled within other, darker squares of blue. Sometime past midnight, the cruise begins to resemble a sleepy fairy-town, its lanterns and garlands all turned off for the night. And later still — when even the memory of that fairyland has faded, and morning is still a long way off — I find myself walking in abstractions of blue.
I am a horrible little gnome, gloating over your death like that. The room smells, rot, roses, and I am a horrible little gnome, gloating and weeping. I hope they don’t bury you at sea. You’re too beautiful for the sea.
✺
No burial at sea. I know you well: You would want pomp, circumstance. You would want all of our chaotic city there for your burial and for the wake. You would want them all to come, drink coffee, mourn over your lovely face, grieve your beautiful memories. You would want me to sit with the men, just a friend, his closest friend, and you would want me — I know this — you would want me to offer my condolences to your wife when she should be offering them to me. It would be the last degradation you’d inflict upon me, the concluding spit in the face. I, the widower. I deserve this wake, deserve to mourn.
To be honest, I have not checked if they would, in fact, bury you at sea. It might be just a romantic notion I have. If they have florists, they must have morgues. You know what? I used to like waiting for you in my room. The distant sound of the highway would keep me company. The rumble of the graveyard, the heat of expectation in the night.
I suppose they could call a helicopter or arrange for your body to be disposed of in the next port of call. The world is so thoroughly legalized, so perfectly covered with networks and satellites that even this must have been accounted for, even this, a lover’s death in a cabin, must have been imagined and rehearsed a thousand times before. But I like to fantasize that it hasn’t, that right now we are in a space where laws do not hold anymore; that something occurred, these past few days that has never occurred. You don’t mind that I am keeping you just a while longer. I know you don’t mind.
Besides, you owe me that, that additional tenderness, that last bit of love.
✺
Later, I will have to call your family. I will stutter. I will extend a helping hand, offer a friendly shoulder. You will be buried in our chaotic, dusty town, in the cemetery that overlooks the valleys and the vanishing highways — a place I, too, will end up one day, though far from your bones — in our land, locked and loaded, beneath a ballet of satellites and drones. I will sit with the men and offer my condolences to your family. And your family will thank me for being here. And your wife will visit you in the graveyard every day. I will come, too. I promise I will.
Finally, we meet, my love.
I should go to Haifa soon. I will wade out to the sea and, when I am waist-deep in the blue, I will look at the Carmel and its woodlands and, beyond, at the sky and maybe I will laugh because we will have been so happy, so ridiculous. I will laugh like one who is helplessly in love.
Do not worry, my love. Do not fret. I’m here. I’m right here.
PHOTO: by Onur via Pexels
✺ Published in “Issue 31: Fiction” of The Dial
