This morning, I got into a bus with a large group of English-speaking tourists. One of them, a little girl, was singing. Everyone around her was smiling. Clapping along. Cheering her on as she moved from song to song.
I couldn't relate.
I had my noise-cancelling headphones on. And I was listening to white noise underneath it. You know, that static sound old grainy TVs make... Yeah, that's what I had playing. It helped me shut out that happy bubble that was building up in the bus. Really, I just wanted to stay inside myself and not feel anything else.
You see, yesterday was awful!
And I hadn't really processed it. So I stayed in my own bubble of white noise. Trying not to be anywhere else.
Then someone tapped lightly on my shoulder.
The bus had come to a stop. A man was standing beside me, pushing his phone in my face. Google Maps was open. I didn't hear what he was saying, but I understood what he meant. I nodded at him, and affirmed with a gesture that it was indeed his bus stop. I glanced at the map again, took a look outside the bus through the window, and pointed him in the direction of the bus stop where he was to wait for his next bus.
He gave me a gentle squeeze on the shoulder and walked off.
And then, for some reason, I took off my headphones.
To smell the air.
Which doesn't even make sense now that I think about it. I mean, you don't smell with your ears! But that's what I did.
And that's when I heard it.
The little girl was singing "Miss American Pie" at that moment. She was singing a very slow, soft version of it.
...I can't remember if I cried
When I read about his widowed bride
But something touched me deep inside...
That was it. I wish I had blocked it out in time. But I had already heard it.
My eyes started to fill. I blinked as fast as I could. Blinked as hard as I could.
Those lines... they punched me in the gut.
I held it together till the next stop. I swear I've never gotten off a bus that fast. And it wasn't even my stop. I just needed to get out. I walked away from the bus stop, to a stretch of road with nothing but bush around.
And that's where I broke!
Rocky. Oh Rocky!
I wasn't exactly best friends with Rocky. But when Entee made that video call yesterday, and told us — me, Mayen, Daniel, and Akom — that Rocky had passed, it knocked the air out of me.
I didn't speak. I didn't know how to. I just stared at the screen. Listening. Understanding. But also internally denying that I was hearing or understanding anything.
Nobody really knew what to say. Everyone was shaken. You could see it in their faces. Especially Entee's. You could see the grief sitting there in her eyes.
Mayen too. Mayen kept begging Entee to tell us it was a prank.
What made it even heavier was that just yesterday, we had shared a really sweet moment in the group.
You see, on our little group we post discussion prompts every weekend, and the thought for the week, as was shared yesterday, was:
What's a version of you that existed once, and that you sometimes miss?
Entee responded that she missed the version of herself that was carefree, and in love with the little things of life. She attached an old video of herself giving a toast at a wedding. Playful. Full of light. That was one of the versions of her she missed.
Rocky commented: "You're a really lovely person."
And he added a flower emoji.
That's who he was. Thoughtful. Kind. Always knew how to say just enough.
Entee created that little group in 2022, and I remember being unsure about Rocky's membership at the time. You see, I was really close to the others — Mayen, Dan, Akom, Entee — from high school. But not really Rocky. We were casual acquaintances in school. Nothing more. Looking back, I'm convinced one of the reasons we never became close was because we were from two radically different sects of the same religion — and if you know anything about that, you know how deep those divides can go.
Besides — and this is taking us back to 2022 — before this small group came about, I'd already seen him share some strong opinions in the larger group chat for our former classmates. By that time, I had already deconstructed religion for myself, and a lot of what he said didn't feel fair to people who wanted nothing to do with his religion.
But over time, in our smaller circle, I started to notice something shift.
Maybe it was because the group leaned progressive overall, but he began to understand that not everyone saw the world the way he did. In particular, he stopped talking like everyone had to do the things his God asked him to do, or avoid the activities his God forbade him from taking part in.
He grew into someone who respected other people's respectful conduct of themselves.
And that growth meant a lot to me.
But now... he's gone.
For someone like me who doesn't believe in an afterlife, that's a hard bit to swallow.
I mean, he's not here... and he's not somewhere else either.
He's gone, and that's it.
It feels unbearably final.
The last time I felt something this sharp was at Ambrose's funeral.
We were sixteen.
Ambrose was in a wooden casket. At the front of the church.
Cold.
I was sitting on a wooden bench. At the back of the church.
Frozen.
His sister was crying. Screaming. Fighting the pallbearers who had come to take him away. She was almost too strong for the four adult women trying to hold her back. She was begging them not to take her brother away. Begging them to leave him alone.
I couldn't move.
I couldn't speak.
I just sat there, staring into space. Watching her fall to pieces. And like I'm in the habit of doing in rough situations, I was denying both my hearing and my sight.
It's strange, but even now, I still think about Ambrose. I think about him a lot. I really do miss Ambrose. I wish I could see him again. I wish I could tell him all the things I never got the chance to say.
That I love him.
That I appreciate him.
I miss my second cousin too.
I remember being such a difficult child — maybe even worse as a pre-teen. But she was endlessly patient. I wish I could see her again. I wish I could tell her that I love her. That I appreciate her. That... one of the techniques she taught me — something simple, for learning things and understanding them intuitively — has stayed with me. I want to tell her it has helped me in ways I don't think she ever imagined. And that I've passed it on to others.
I miss my maternal grandfather. I didn't know him at all. I only saw him once — at my paternal grandmother's funeral. My aunt, who was babysitting me at the time, took me to him and said, "That's your grandfather!"
But I didn't believe her. I refused to stay with him.
And then, a few years later, when I could understand things better, he was gone.
I remember feeling guilty at his funeral. I had missed my only chance to connect with him.
And now, I'm going to miss Rocky.
It really hurts.
It hurts more to know I'll never see him again. Never hear from him again. Never get to tell him that I noticed how kind he'd become. That I appreciated it. That I appreciated him.
I've been thinking about his parents a lot, too.
What they must be feeling.
Their son walked into their room at midnight and said he was having trouble breathing. They rushed him to the hospital. They did everything they could.
But he didn't make it.
If I ever have to speak with them — or write to them — I'll probably tell them he's in a better place. That he's with his God. That they'll see him again someday.
Because I know those are the words their religious hearts need right now.
But for me, I can't say that to myself. I could never believe it.
For me, he's just gone.
And I'm going to miss him for a very long time.
Like I've missed Ambrose. And my second cousin. And my grandfather.
I stayed back late at work today so I could be alone-ish on my commute home. And thankfully, I have enough quiet in this bus to think. Enough quiet to put my thoughts down here.
I'm thinking about Entee now. I can ony imagine how deeply this event cuts for her. But I can't reach out to her right now. I haven't been able to reach out to anyone yet. I just don't have the words. My emotions are still all over the place.
Oh, but I'll be fine. Well, at least, eventually.
So don't worry too much about me.
One thing you can do is take a moment to reflect on your community. The people whose lives you're grateful to witness. The people who have changed in ways you admire. And, maybe, if it feels right, reach out to them.
Say the thing.
Just say the thing.
A beautifully written piece. Thanks for sharing.
I pray we can all uncover the version of ourselves wise enough to give people their roses while they are still with us.