August 19th Memorial Goodbye

Dear Kyle,

In trying to write to you, it seems silly, because I am talking to you every day, all day long now.

In the days following your death, I noticed myself in an almost methodical search. Seeking pictures from friends to show to the folks at the ICU, trying to decipher your cell phone contents to pinpoint your last calls and texts, calling your boss Paul—not only to give him the sad news but to learn about you as a working man, talking to the detective to know what others saw as you tried to stop the train but then fell, speaking with your friends—many of whom I had never met, later writing to your university to find out what teachers could tell me about you as a college student.

I began to realize I was trying to capture everything about you. A hopeless attempt to keep you with me, I guess. But also to get to know you better.

When we go home again—once we’ve gone out into the world—we tend to revert to our youngest available self. In the throws of my family, I become the big sister again and sallie becomes the baby sister—doesn’t matter that we are nearing 50 and 60 years (not respectively). the kyle who came home to me—in rushed weekends or holiday breaks—your youngest self—would come crashing through the condo in great haste, your size 14 doc maartins left for me to trip over, leaving the kitchen strewn with the remnants of pan-fried fish or an some concoction, and turning the handsome room I had made for you into an indescribable hellhole.

Now, of course, I’d give anything in the world to have you and any amount of mess you’d care to create right here right now. but in losing you, in my searching and gathering, I discovered something most parents don’t get to discover. I discovered the boy who’d become a man. I discovered Kyle as a loyal and beloved friend, as a hard-working and valued employee, and as a brilliant, inquisitive, and thoughtful student. I discovered more than I’d ever known about your generosity to others—to your buds or to the homeless on the street. I discovered the man you were becoming and I fell in love with you all over again.

You were a big, beautiful, playful, and exuberant baby. You were a voracious reader from age four. You were an insatiable learner in elementary school. You had an encyclopedic knowledge of reggae, rock, blues. You were fascinated by art and visited galleries on your own. You were a photographer and a budding filmmaker. You were a thinker and a storyteller. Not a fiction writer, but a teller of the stories you saw about you. I kept telling you to write down your stories, and you kept saying, “But I’ll remember.” but I wasn’t getting it. You were not going to waste time writing about your life. You were too busy living it.

You taught me to embrace the moment. You taught me to be “calm, Mom, calm.” You taught me that what mattered wasn’t always measurable by grades or other standard assessments. You taught me that simply being happy an admirable thing. You taught me, “It’s all good, Mom, it’s all good. Mom, Mom, it’s good. Let it go.”

A couple of years ago, you took a video camera around san Francisco and began filming what you saw. And you came across a bum sitting in the street with a sign in his lap that said: “Testing for human kindness.” Months later you called and said, “Mom, I found the sign lying on the street—The sign, “Testing for human kindness.” And I asked if you took it, and you said you’d thought about it, but decided it wasn’t yours to take.

Testing for human kindness. You passed the test, my sweet boy, with a 5.0.

I will love you eternally,

Mum