In "His" Shoes

 

In “His” Shoes by John Montuori

 

I had just landed in New York, gotten my rental car, and was on the Grand Central Parkway when I got the call.  After Katherine delivered the news, I was dumbstruck.  That is to say, I couldn’t process the message I’d received.  I went from confusion, to misunderstanding, to shock, to denial, until I was somehow parked at a rest stop, stumbling alongside my vehicle, succumbing to anguish.  

 

When I collected myself, I made a few calls.  Katherine picked Jack up from school.  We told him together.  He fell apart.  They went home, and I was in a trance over the next 48 hours.  

 

An abrupt change of plans, I found myself at a hotel near South Street Seaport.  I checked in, changed clothes, and decided to go for a walk.  With air pods in to drown out the life of the city, I wandered the streets listening only to white noise.  I drifted through neighborhoods I’d never been.  I entered churches I’d never seen.  I lit candles.  I bought lepidolite angels.  Eventually I found myself in Central Park.  It would be about 4.5 miles as the crow flies, but I meandered on and off course numerous times, either lost or being led.  I still don’t know.  

 

I thought about hopping the subway back, but decided to walk a little further.  A little further turned into completing a round trip, clocking a full 13 miles.  

 

It was still two more days before I finally got home.  I drove from Tyson McGee Airport straight to Jeanne’s house at 10pm.  It was time to put the shock and pain away just long enough to be the John that Kyle knew me to be.  If I’m being honest, I’m not sure I’ve been that John since. 

 

As a family, we’ve experienced a fair amount of grief.  In just the last 5 years we’ve lost a friend to addiction, one to cancer, and one to sudden cardiac arrest.  But these were all adults.  Each tragic in their own way.  

 

This.  This isn’t the same.  I don’t know what THIS is.  It’s not grief.  Not in a normal sense anyway.  Because not only do I feel this in my own body, I’m also experiencing it through one of Kyle’s best friends. 

 

Every. Single. Day.  

 

He’s my son.  Kyle was my friend’s son, but before that he was my son’s friend. Not just any friend; a best friend.  The kind of friend who when he heard the news, waited about 6 hours before texting Erica and asking if he could deliver the eulogy.  7 months later and I can’t type those words without my eyes filling with tears.  

 

Navigating grief with a 13 year old is weird.  There aren’t big emotions like I would’ve expected.  Instead, there are quiet moments every single day when Jack will say “Kyle loved this song” or “You know who this reminds me of right?”  

 

“What color are we doing your braces this time?” they ask at the orthodontist.  

 

“Orange for my buddy Kyle”.  

 

Every.  Single.  Day.  He is here with us.  He’s in our house.  He’s coming through our radio in the car.  He’s at sporting events.  He’s ever-present.  Everything is a tribute to Kyle.  They knew each other for what, 6 years?  8?  Doesn’t sound like a lot, but that was most of their lives.  I’m 45.  That would be like me losing a friend I’ve had for 30 years.  I’m not even sure I have a friend I’ve been close to for 30 years.  

 

The imprint that Kyle left on Jack has forever changed his life.  The person Jack became the minute Kyle left was a version of himself that he may never have known otherwise.  Kyle’s service was Jacks first experience speaking publicly.  He had been solid as a rock until we sat down and the music started playing.  Moments before it was time, he started to get cold feet.  Nevertheless, he somehow mustered the strength.  

 

As he stood there, shaking in his shoes, he  managed to share what he wrote in front of 1000+ people.  That wasn’t just Jack up there.  That was Jacks big heart filled with Kyle’s charismatic spirit.  That was my shy boy being lifted up by the mayor of Rocky Hill.  Jack will carry Kyle in his heart forever.  And I can’t help but be reminded of the EE Cummings poem that Cameron Diaz reads to Toni Collette at the end of “In Her Shoes”.  

 

“…(Here is the root of the root, and the bud of the bud, and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows higher than soul can hope or mind can hide) and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart. 

I carry your heart. I carry it in my heart.”

 

I think if you knew Kyle….if you taught him, coached him, played a sport with him, babysat him, trick-or-treated with him, went to a game with him, hiked with him, laughed with him, or simply were on the receiving end of questions from him (“Mr John…?) then chances are you carry him in your heart too.