It was a cold, grey day in the Northeast. March of 2015. I pushed a final heap of snow from the driveway onto the yard, and I looked through the bushes at our beloved neighbor and family friend, Kenny. He was brushing snow off his car, about to walk inside.
It was the last time I saw him.
Around 5 p.m., ambulance lights cast a red glow on the walls of my living room where I was studying for a chemistry test. I went to the window to watch it slowly cruise down our narrow, freshly plowed street, only to stop in front of Kenny’s house, and pull in and around the circular driveway. He had suffered a heart attack. He was dead.
All the snow melted by early spring, and on a much warmer, sunnier, pleasant day in April, friends and family gathered for a memorial in Kenny’s backyard. If memory serves me well, my dad read a Native American prayer for the deceased, the author of which is unknown. I do distinctly remember looking up at the trees, failing to hold back tears as I listened.
It goes like this:
I give you this, one thought to keep.
I am with you still, I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on the ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken this morning’s hush,
I am the swift uplifting rush…
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night
Do not think of me as gone —
I am with you still, in each new dawn.
This time of year, I always think of Kenny. The final time I saw him, the memorial in his backyard, the poem. I also think of him every time I see an ad about the upcoming Masters tournament.
For most golf fans, the Masters has a truly unique magic to it, found in the tournament’s deep-rooted history, the vivid azaleas that bloom in Georgia, and the towering pines that frame the course. We watch for the legends who rise on Sunday and those who falter. We await that final, exalted moment when the victor dons the iconic Green Jacket.
For me, though, the tournament’s significance will forever be tied to Kenny, who, for years, invited my dad and me to watch the final round. I am not even sure if Kenny was a golfer or a regular fan; the Masters might have been his only annual encounter with the sport. Yet he cherished every minute of it.
We would gather around a small television in his study, usually sitting in near silence. My dad or Kenny might have occasionally broken the quiet with a prediction about a leaderboard collapse or a quick joke. I was painfully shy then and always remained mute. We were just three guys bonding over a golf tournament. It was proof that the simplest shared experiences usually lead to the strongest connections.
Kenny doesn’t only live on as the thousand winds that blow or the diamond glints of snow. He lives on through the Masters. He lives on through the hush before a tee off. The roars of the crowd on the 18th green. The pleasurable sound of a ball struck squarely on the sweet spot by a professional who can land it within 10 yards of the pin from 200 yards out.
It’s funny, the memories that stick with us, the ones that never fade away into the quiet darkness of our minds. Maybe you are thinking of someone you love and whom you have lost. Maybe you remember them every day thanks to objects, routines, or traditions. Maybe they live on through a coffee mug. Maybe through scented laundry detergent. An informal annual gathering to watch a sporting event.
Maybe all the banalities of our lives contain hidden multitudes of sorrow, pain, happiness, and joy. Maybe the memories we least expect to be significant are the ones that will haunt us the most.
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