Sometimes, a hello from heaven is impossible to ignore. The dogs were barking like crazy, and then I heard Kingston’s voice—clear, unmistakable. Moments later, his urn had shifted, letters were scattered, and Echo played a song that hit too perfectly. Then Suge brought out a toy tied to one of our most cherished memories. There was no denying it—Kingston was still here, making sure we knew.
I froze.
It wasn’t a thought. It wasn’t a memory playing tricks on me. It was him.
The grief therapist says to acknowledge it, to respond, to keep the line open so we don’t gaslight ourselves into thinking we’re losing our minds. So I whispered, “I hear you. I love you. I miss you.” The words felt like they barely left my lips before the energy in the room shifted. A weight, thick and electric, pressed into my chest. I walked into the living room, half-expecting to find Zuma wide-eyed, waiting for me to confirm she had heard him too.
But before I could even ask, before I could piece together the barking dogs and the sudden pulse of the air around us, something crashed behind me.
I spun around and ran back to my room.
His urn—his urn—was sideways. The letters Zuma and Lina had written to him lay scattered on the floor, as if someone had carefully lifted them from their safe spot and placed them there. My breath caught in my throat. A cold, knowing shiver rippled through me, making my skin tighten. The kind of goosebumps that don’t fade—the kind that burrow deep, sending a current through every nerve ending.
I stumbled back into the living room, words failing me, pulse hammering. The dogs were still barking at the couch—his couch. The place he always sat, like they were waiting for him to come back, like they could see him.
I needed to know. I needed something tangible. My hands were shaking as I asked Echo when the new Bluey season would premiere. It answered—July 2024. Over and over. No matter how I rephrased it, the response was the same. July 2024.
Then Zuma tried. “Echo, when will there be a new Bluey epi—”
Before she could even finish the question, before the words even had time to breathe—
Justin Bieber’s “Ghost” started playing.
No command. No request. Just…a song about missing someone, about feeling them even when they’re gone.
Zuma and I whipped our heads toward each other so fast, our necks nearly snapped. Eyes wide. Blood rushing in our ears. She wasn’t alone. I wasn’t alone. The song played on, and we crumbled. Tears, disbelief, the overwhelming knowing that Kingston was right there, shaking us awake, telling us, I never left.
The dogs kept barking at the couch, but then Suge—our gentle, intuitive Suge—did something he never does. He ran to his toy bin, digging past every single plush he usually brings, past the lamb he always picks. This time, he pulled out Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer from the very bottom of the pile. The toy was old, nearly forgotten, but he carried it with purpose. He didn’t bring it to me. He didn’t bring it to Zuma.
He placed it on the couch.
Right where Kingston would have been.
And that’s when it hit me like a punch to the soul—Kingston had been cremated in his Rudolph pajamas. The ones that matched Zuma’s. The ones he wore the night I tucked him in for the last time.
Goosebumps turned to chills, the kind that sink deep into your bones. Zuma was sobbing, because just last night, she had broken down, feeling like he had been distant lately. Like the signs had slowed down. Like maybe, just maybe, he was fading away.
And now, he had given us everything in a single night. His voice, his presence, the song, the couch, the toy.
A perfectly orchestrated love letter from the other side.
A little piece of Kingston’s world—his urn surrounded by love, memories, and messages from Zuma. His spirit lives on in every sign, every moment, and in the hearts of those who knew him. 💛✨ To learn more about his journey, visit LiveLikeKingston.org.
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Learn more about Kingston’s Journey:
LiveLikeKingston.Org
The AfterWords: Blog