Eulogy

Part Six.

I was afraid of him.

Not because I thought he would beat me up. Because he had the artistic talent I aspired to and the intellect I wanted and the boldness I never felt I deserved.

I never understood why he liked my friendship, so I was constantly afraid of losing it. I knew I could make him laugh, but that only ever made me feel like a joke. I respected him so deeply that hanging around him was a constant, self-imposed challenge to be worthy of his company. To earn the right to hear his opinions, to deserve to debate the merits of science against the merits of art. He would respect your opposing point of view the way one respects a charging bull; powerful, but stupid, and could not be suffered to run around unchecked.

Once he started college he became an electrical engineer, and for years I was heartbroken. His drawings outclassed the sketches in any of the RPG books we would pore over. His writings held me captivated more than any published fiction I could purchase. I was afraid that he wasn’t living the life that would have led him to his best satisfaction, and I was saddened because my favorite artist had stopped producing art.

I finally challenged him about this life decision a handful of years ago. As he always did, he listened to everything I had to say, and considered deeply before responding. In the end I learned I was wrong. He had done right by himself. He wasn’t always successful and he wasn’t always happy, but he had walked the path that was right by him, secure in the knowledge that he would have made the same major decisions over again if he’d been given the option.

For many years I referred to Kevin as my oldest friend. More recently I would say, “On the day I got married there were eight people in the room. Kevin was one of them.” The first time I planned to get married I knew I wanted him as my Best Man. The second time, too. When I wed my Lady Love, my Charm, he was there as I’d always hoped he would be. Later I would realize that year had also seen the twentieth anniversary of the day I met him.

Whenever I’m trying to craft a project, eventually I hear his voice: “Sometimes you have to shoot the engineer and build the fucking thing.” The wisdom of da Vinci filtered through blunt, southern American charm.

He could cook, too.

Sometimes we wouldn’t speak for years, but he would cross my mind every day of my life. Jokes we shared, games we played, arguments we had, music we liked, movies we quoted, pranks we pulled on each other, all the mutual experiences ricochet and reverberate and make sympathetic imprints onto every corner of my life, from my kitchen counter to my bookshelf; from my computer chair to my driver’s seat.

The only people I’ve known longer, I’m related to.

In my mind, Kevin will always live in the present tense. His legacy and our relationship will shape the rest of my life, much the way it has since my earliest memories of him. I’ll lie down every night assured that if I am the best version of myself, it was because he inspired me to do so.

I miss him.

Acceptance

Part 5, In Which It Goes Just Like the Movies

I had made flight arrangements to return to Chicago on Friday, the day after the viewing. The day after I booked the flight I saw in his obituary that the burial would be on Saturday. My first reaction was to feel crushed; I had wanted to be there until the very end. I was embarrassed that I subconsciously figured the viewing would be the last thing. I wish I had asked someone before I started making flight plans, but the only person I knew how to contact was his fiancée; I didn’t want to trouble her any more than absolutely necessary.

I immediately started asking myself why this last bit was so important to me. Finally I decided that maybe it’s because that’s what happens in all the movies. It’s cold and rainy, the headstones are all grand and ornate and beautiful, and one person stands all by himself and says something fancy. Ultimately I let the notion go. Kevin wouldn’t give me shit one way or another.

All week long I kept getting the same question: Are you going to be there Saturday? It was easy to say no at first. I had already made travel arrangements. I had to go back to work. I couldn’t bear the cost of the penalty for changing the flight. But every time I was asked my excuse felt thinner. Weaker. Less worthy. I had been given the resources and the permission. I could have made it happen if I wanted to.

Eventually I came to realize the question had been more than casual. Slowly I gleaned that I wasn’t simply being asked. I was being invited. Requested directly by his siblings and his parents. “Will you?” turned into “I hope you can,” and I started figuring out logistics. When I heard, “Let me know if we can help you,” I fell headlong into an inevitable force akin to gravity, and started contacting everyone who needed to know that I’d be gone for two more days.

I awoke Saturday morning to grey light pouring in through the windows of my guest bedroom. Someone knocked and told me we’d be trying to leave half an hour earlier than planned, which meant I had to haul ass to make it happen. I did, and made it to the car in a respectable amount of time.

Cave Hill cemetery in Louisville is goddamn gorgeous. Every grave is a unique monument bearing ornate and detailed sculptures. During the drive late season snow had turned to sleet before finally succumbing to a mild, yet persistent rain. A small tent had been erected over the site, under which perhaps half of us were able to crowd for the final ritual.

Only two people stood to speak, the second of which was his Kevin’s father. He read from a small, leather bound notebook in which he had handwritten his words. What he said is not for me to share, but I can say this: he looked up once during the reading and his eyes met mine. Given the sentence he had just ended, I knew that there was no more appropriate nor necessary place for me to have been standing than right where I was at that time.

I got to say my own piece later – but that’s for later.