For Kenny

"So hold my hand as I'm leaving
Hoped my pain would be enough reason
I'll see you on the other side of the Blue Ridge sky
But now I'm going
Hate to tell you goodbye"

["Goodbye Carolina", The Marcus King Band]

On June 11th, 2019, we received word that one of Liza-Ann's nephews, Kenny, had died suddenly at home.  No one saw this coming.  It was one of those random, out of the blue things.  After a certain point in life, having had to say goodbye to a few loved ones, one tends to contemplate the mortality of other people in your life from time to time.  The focus, of course, is always on the ones older than you.  No one ever expects someone younger to be taken from them.

Kenny was only 31.  He leaves behind a brilliant, beautiful 3-year-old daughter,  an incredible wife whose love for him could not be overstated, a loving family and friends numerous enough to pack not only the funeral home but the parking lot too.

When the family came together to mourn, there were a lot of hugs, a lot of crying, and a lot of nothing much one can say to make sense of such an unexpected loss.  I really... for all my wishing and wanting of something, anything to say... I just couldn't find words.  So much sadness and nothing I could say.  It was surreal.  It all felt like walking through a lucid nightmare with the constant expectation of waking.  Most days it still feels that way.

Kenny and I weren't particularly close.  We didn't know each other especially well.  Saw each other a half dozen times a year.  But while most of my grief may be for seeing the hurt devastating Liza-Ann's family around me, it still comes with a deep sense of personal loss too. It's been days now and I've just pushed down the sadness to remain clear-headed and supportive as best I could for those around me who needed it.  "Staggered breaths".  But it's lurking there in the background, waiting for moments of weakness when I remember it's all too real and it sneaks up and overwhelms me.  I did have a good cry when I started my first draft of this post, the day after he died.  I've welled up at work but managed to maintain my composure.

I met Kenny 14 years ago when Liza-Ann and I got together.  He was a brash young buck, 17 years old.  And I thought of him as much as 30-somethings think of brash young bucks they barely know:  not much.  We didn't have much common ground.  We didn't interact much.  We got along fine on the various family occasions.  He was polite.  Honest.  Candid.  Very candid.  I liked that.

Some time passed, and he was in his early 20s, making the sort of stupid, foolish, and irresponsible choices that men in their early 20s make.  So at first I thought him stupid, foolish, and irresponsible, but on reflection, remembering my own stupid, foolish, and irresponsible choices, I knew I had to cut him some slack.  We continued to get on fine at the various family occasions.  We still didn't seem to have that much to talk about, though I think we both tried.

Then he made an important decision about his future that reminded me of a difficult choice I'd once made in my life, and I saw within him a little piece of myself.  I never discussed it with him, it was just something that has always stuck in the back of my mind over the years.  It was a little something we shared, sort of, even if he never knew it.

Over the last half of our time knowing each other, things between us changed.  I watched him as he passed out of his early 20s, finally got together with the woman he was destined to marry (he really was - it's a wonderful tale), started a career, bought a house, began raising a young daughter.  My respect for him grew considerably.  He'd gone from boy to man, and he was a good man.  Over time, little by little, we uncovered things we did have in common.  We discovered shared musical tastes, a love of computers, some video games and television programs we were both keen on... we didn't interact much outside family gatherings, but I looked forward to the chance to chat with him as each of these occasions rolled around.  In fact, the last time he came to the house, he was one of the ones I was most looking forward to catching up with.

Simply put: I liked him.

But I never told him that.  As I write this, I find myself filled with regret.  I'd grown to love and respect him and I wish I'd told him so.  I should have told him so.  People deserve to know.

I will forever carry with me two strong memories of Kenny.

The first of these memories is the last conversation we ever had.

This past Easter, toward the end of the family gathering, he and I had a one-on-one chat in the hallway outside the living room, and discovered another connection, another shared experience.  We both have strong body-clocks, and as early-risers - as much as we love our partners, child, lives, etc. - enjoy that special tranquility of waking up in the early morning on a day off, slipping out of bed to go sit and recharge in our solitude, while the house, the whole world around us it feels like, gently sleeps.  It's a simple thing, I know, and not all that unique.  But there was something special about that conversation to me.  It wasn't simply liking the same band or album or TV show.  It was a little something about our lives, about ourselves, that we shared.  It was a common thread that connected us as people.  Long before the tragic news of his death came, this was something I'd already bookmarked in my mind as worth remembering.

The second memory is from his wedding day.

We've all seen those sweet couples.  We all seen the look young people in love give one another.  And I've been fortunate in my life to see eyes directed at me filled with the kind of love that elevates the soul.  I've seen it in Liza-Ann's.  But the look Robyn had for Kenny on their wedding day was a kind of unmistakably pure bliss that transcends description.  I remember wondering to myself 'Does he know how lucky he is?'  But it's not about luck.  It's never about luck.  It's about decisions and commitment.  It all stemmed from that difficult decision he'd once made about his future, that one that resonated in my mind.  He wasn't lucky.  He earned it.

So at the same time my heart breaks for Robyn's loss, it swells at the thought of the life he chose for himself those years ago.  Lives are not measured in quantity, but in quality.  His - while shorter than we'd all have liked - was beautiful and bright.

I should have told him.  But I didn't.  So instead I'll tell everyone else.

"Read you all the letters I wrote but never sent"

["Goodbye Carolina", The Marcus King Band]