A New Perspective
Three weeks had passed since Kingston slipped away, leaving a void so vast that every day feels like I’m on the edge of it, barely holding on. I thought I was ready to start figuring out what comes next, so I arranged to meet with a woman—someone who’d reached out in the days after Kingston’s passing, a stranger to me but familiar with his journey. At first, I’d been put off by all the messages, the attention his death brought crashing into my world in its wake. But one sleepless night, desperate to sort through the torrent of feelings and the strange signs swirling around me, I found myself online. It was 1 or 2 a.m., and there she was, asking questions in Messenger—questions that somehow felt like they cut through the chaos in my mind. Before I knew it, I was pouring my heart out to her, telling her everything I’d kept locked up. I confessed things that felt almost absurd to say aloud, about the signs and the strange awakenings I couldn’t explain, as if she held some key to understanding it all. It was like word vomit, an unfiltered release, as if I were on some midnight, drunken date, confessing everything just to feel a little less alone.
After that night, she suggested we meet for lunch. Part of me was reluctant, but a stronger part was curious, almost needing to understand why she’d reached out in the first place. Maybe she knew something I didn’t. Maybe, if I kept nibbling at the bait she dangled in front of my grief-stricken mind, she’d help me make sense of it all.
So, there we sat in a quiet café, and as we talked, I found myself lost in my own words. I was rambling, nervously, selfishly, filling the air with my thoughts and emotions, barely pausing, almost as if I were taking every ounce of oxygen from the room to fuel the stories pouring out of me. Stories and memories about Kingston, of his life and loss, tumbled out without pause. She listened, her expression calm, as if she were absorbing it all, unshaken, a steady presence in my storm.
On the table were two glasses of water, placed there by our waiter, along with two mimosas. I’d been sipping my mimosa, the bitterness cutting through the fog in my mind, occasionally taking a few sips of water in between. By then, my glass was half empty—I’d barely touched it, just enough to wet my throat, to break up the intensity of the moment. Her glass, though, had been emptied early on; I’d watched her finish it just before she excused herself to use the restroom. Her glass sat there, empty, while mine rested on my left, untouched since my last small sip.
Absentmindedly, I reached for a glass, assuming it was mine, but as I lifted it, I felt a jolt of surprise—it was completely empty. Her glass, not mine. Startled, I quickly set it back down and picked up my own half-empty glass, taking a long, steady sip. Only then did I realize how thirsty I’d become after all this time, talking, filling the silence with everything I hadn’t been able to say since Kingston left.
When she returned, I mentioned, almost as an afterthought, that I was still thirsty. She glanced at the table and reached for the glass on my left, offering it to me. I started to take it but hesitated, suddenly confused.
“No, that’s not mine. It’s… half full,” I said out loud, the words hanging in the air, strange and significant. Half full. I stared at the glass, feeling an odd sense of disorientation.
I looked at it again, my heart racing as the realization hit me. This glass was half full, and it wasn’t there before. Just moments ago, there had only been two glasses—mine and hers—each with faint lipstick prints marking our own. But this third glass, untouched and pristine, sat in front of me now, half full and glistening like it had just appeared from thin air, perfectly clean, without a smudge, as if no one had ever held it.
In that quiet, surreal moment, I leaned back and let the weight of everything settle around me. The third glass, half full, seemed like a message—yet not from the woman across from me. She was still watching me, polite and attentive, but I couldn’t say I felt any more enlightened by her presence. If anything, she was like a well-meaning stranger, someone who’d spent time listening, and maybe I needed that in my own roundabout way. But as for her advice or insights—she’d said she was a life coach, a title that struck a dissonant chord in the heart of my grief.
Life coach. The idea alone felt strange to me, something distant from the raw, jagged reality I was living in. I’ve always felt God was my life coach, and that anyone else claiming the title couldn’t offer what I needed in that space. Her career might have meant something to her, maybe even to other people, but for me, it felt misplaced. I could tell she wanted to fix me, to mend something she saw broken in me. Her intentions weren’t bad—she was kind, thoughtful, someone who genuinely wanted to help—but the way she seemed to frame grief as a problem to solve, a phase to get through, missed the mark entirely.
I wanted to be polite, to keep an open mind, but deep down, I knew this encounter would soon find its way into the quiet file in my mind where I stored away all the other fleeting, well-meaning people. People who thought they could help but didn’t know the first thing about the kind of grief that reshapes your world, that changes the way you breathe, see, and even feel time. Still, she listened, and for that, I was grateful, even if what I took away wasn’t what she expected to give.
As for the glass—its meaning settled in with an unexpected weight. It wasn’t about what she had said or done; it was about what remained, what lingered beyond her words. This half-full glass, pristine and untouched, felt like Kingston’s own quiet reminder that even when something is taken away, something else remains. That loss doesn’t leave only a void, but maybe, just maybe, a glimmer of fullness waiting to be seen.
I reached out to it, not to drink but to feel its presence. It was Kingston’s way, I realized, of nudging me toward a different way of seeing, of understanding that life could still hold meaning, even in its broken, incomplete state. This moment, this unexpected third glass, wasn’t about finding answers or closure—it was simply a reminder that he was there, in the quiet spaces, in the questions that don’t need fixing, in the fullness hidden within emptiness.
As I looked at that third glass, its pristine, half-full presence, I felt a quiet, profound certainty that Kingston had a hand in this moment. It only made sense that this unexpected glass was a sign from him, letting me know he was still here with me, that he’d made it safely to the other side, into heaven. And yet, his journey with me wasn’t over. He was telling me, in the way only he could, that he’d always be here, guiding me, reminding me to “live like Kingston”—to see the world as he did, with the glass half full.
That was the magic of Kingston’s time here on earth, the way he could radiate optimism and find light, even in the darkest spaces. Despite the difficulties he faced, he lived every moment with that unshakable belief in fullness, in joy, in possibility. He was a beacon of positive energy, so much so that in those final days, he’d told me he wanted that for me, too. He wanted me to see life as he did, to hold onto happiness, to find something good in even the hardest moments. I understood now that this glass, half full even when life felt empty, was his way of showing me how to keep going. Kingston’s message was clear: to see the glass half full—not just when it’s easy, but especially when it’s not.
