The days after Kingston’s passing blurred together, a relentless wave of sorrow and confusion that left me clinging to anything that might resemble comfort. Hawaii had been an attempt at escape, a desperate need to flee the hollow silence that filled our home. It was supposed to be time to reconnect, a place where Zuma and I could just breathe, be surrounded by beauty, and remember how to feel alive—even if just for a moment.
But even the ocean’s pull, the sun on my skin, and the comforting rhythm of waves couldn’t silence the grief. Every corner of paradise seemed to echo with Kingston’s absence. We spent days wandering, searching for signs of him in the wildflowers lining the trails, in the song of a bird perched on our balcony each morning. Little reminders, like the Lightning McQueen car that zipped by us out of nowhere or the song that played in the background of a beach cafe—the very same one that had woken Kingston from surgery years ago. They were tiny, inexplicable moments that made me feel him close, as if he was trying to reach us, whispering, “I’m still here.”
Yet, when we returned home, the silence of our familiar walls became unbearable, a void too vast for us to face. It was as if the house itself felt haunted by everything we’d lost. So we packed up again, heading toward something familiar, anything to ground us. This time, it was Seattle—a place that, though marked by memories, held the steadiness of family and friends who understood our grief without needing words. I needed the comfort of the known, a tether to keep me from drifting, and Zuma needed space to be a child again, away from the heavy air that clung to our home.
And so, with a hurried call to Jaden, we found ourselves on a plane, leaving the broken pieces of home behind, if only for a little while. Seattle felt like the place where healing might be possible, where the roads held echoes of a younger, braver me. I hoped that somewhere between the tall evergreens and quiet lakes, I might find the strength to put one foot in front of the other again.
We landed in Seattle under the quiet cover of night. The city lights stretched out beneath us as we descended, a familiar constellation that felt both comforting and surreal. We made our way to Jaden’s house, slipping into beds that felt foreign but safe. Sleep—a concept that seemed distant and impossible to me—must have found someone that night, but it certainly wasn’t me. I lay awake, thoughts unraveling in the darkness, each memory of Kingston pulling me further from rest. Morning eventually came, as it always does, its light creeping in with an insistence that life had to go on.
Even though I couldn’t remember the last real meal I’d eaten, there was one thing I knew: my favorite restaurant was here, a place that only existed in Washington, and I had to go. It was a small thing, maybe even a selfish thing, to want something as simple as a familiar meal when everything else felt so hollow, but that restaurant held memories that felt grounding. So, despite everything, we made plans—a quiet decision to take that small step out into the day, hoping the taste of something familiar might settle the storm, if only for a moment.
As we settled into the cramped, fiery red Uber, I sat in the front seat beside the tiny old woman driving, while Zuma was nestled in the back, squeezed between Maddie and Tatum, their giggles mixing as they jostled for space. The sight of all of us crammed into what was supposed to be a spacious SUV, now transformed into a matchbox on wheels, made me smile. Our driver, a tiny woman with short, snowy hair and glasses perched on her nose, looked like she belonged in a storybook rather than navigating city streets. The car barely hummed as we set off, rolling through the familiar yet changed streets just south of Tacoma.
The roads were narrower here, winding through towns dotted with small churches and modest houses. Outside, bursts of late summer blooms lined the road—bright orange poppies and purple lupines reaching skyward, framing the dappled greenery of ferns and ever-present pine trees. These flowers were like whispers of resilience, thriving on the edge of the road despite the relentless swoosh of passing cars.
As we ventured further, the city noises softened, replaced by the rustle of leaves and the occasional crow’s call. Washington’s air was somehow denser yet crisper than California’s, carrying that unmistakable scent of rain-soaked earth and pine needles, a contrast to the sun-baked asphalt and salt of home. We rounded a bend, and a field of wildflowers appeared—yellow mustard, daisies, and the soft blue of forget-me-nots waving lazily in the breeze. California’s bright, rugged coastline felt miles away as I watched the delicate petals sway here, untroubled and peaceful. The landscape brought back memories of my own youthful recklessness, of late nights and laughter echoing in these woods and fields. I pointed out a few familiar spots to Zuma and the others, though I kept certain stories to myself—some memories are best left hazy, sealed by time.
The old woman glanced at me as I settled in beside her, and as we wound around the familiar bends of my past, I began talking—filling the silence, spilling memories like loose change. I told the driver how I’d grown up here, confessing that some of my memories were hazy, clouded by the parties and restless nights that marked my youth. She nodded knowingly, as if she’d heard this story before, her quiet presence nudging me to continue.
As we navigated the roads headed towards our destination, I took in the sights with renewed appreciation. This wasn’t the wide, unrestrained sprawl of California. Here, life felt quieter, hemmed in by mountains and trees that watched, as if keeping the secrets of everyone who’d ever roamed these roads. It was as if, on that little red ride through familiar roads, the land itself was welcoming me back, pulling me into a bittersweet embrace of memories and the soft promise of healing.
I mentioned the church we passed, one that felt like an anchor from another time, and she asked, “Are you a believer?” Her voice was soft, yet it held a weight that pulled the question down to the heart of things. I hesitated before answering, fumbling through my own beliefs, telling her yes, no, maybe—grief does strange things to faith. And then, there it was: I told her that my son had passed away, only a few weeks ago. The words tumbled out heavy and raw, yet she just nodded, as if this, too, was a familiar part of life’s tapestry.
Zuma, my quiet listener, was taking it all in from the back seat. She’s always listening, always picking up the pieces of my stories even when I think her attention is elsewhere. So, I continued, spilling stories of Hawaii, sharing the signs I’d felt Kingston had sent us. I told the old woman about the Lightning McQueen car on the side of the road, the red bird that visited Zuma each morning, even how the song that woke Kingston up from his brain surgery seemed to follow us around. As we touched down in Seattle, I could swear I caught his scent, like he was still close, still guiding us. She listened, unfazed, her gentle nods urging me on. The silence would only make my grief louder, so I filled it with words, reaching for the familiar in the middle of the unknown.
At one point, I read her part of Kingston’s eulogy right there in the Uber, realizing as I spoke that I’d become that woman—the grieving mother reading eulogies to strangers, her story tumbling out in waves. The old woman nodded along, her silence a comforting echo to my outpouring.
And then, to my surprise, Zuma joined in. The old woman turned to her, asking, “Do you believe in heaven?” Zuma paused, her gaze breaking from the girls’ chatter. “Yes,” she said, clear and unwavering. “I had a dream I was there once. I got all the way to the gates, but I couldn’t go in. It wasn’t my time. But I saw the fields—pastel colors, soft as a whisper. The flowers were beautiful, leading up to these glowing gates that just started to open.”
I could picture it through her words—the gates shimmering, glowing like light caught in a morning mist, flowers in hues too gentle for this world. The gate stood slightly ajar, like an invitation held just out of reach, and behind it, a light so soft and welcoming it could only belong to a place where peace lived.
The old woman smiled, her eyes distant, as if Zuma’s words had unlocked a memory of her own. “I’ve been to heaven too,” she said softly. “My sister took me there when she passed. She wanted me to know she made it, that she was where she was supposed to be. And she promised we’d see each other again.”
Zuma’s eyes widened, caught in the old woman’s story, the gravity of it pulling her in. By then, we were almost at our destination, but the car felt like it held more than just us. It held our stories, our hopes, and the soft glow of something beyond the everyday.
As the old woman and Zuma exchanged stories, I sat there, mouth wide open, completely floored. I felt my eyes bulging in surprise, turning to Zuma with a gasp. “How come you never told me this story?” I asked, my voice a mix of awe and a bit of panic. “When did this happen? I need to know everything.”
Zuma looked at me with a calm, almost knowing expression, as if I should have understood. “I don’t know, maybe a week before Kingston died,” she replied, shrugging slightly, her tone making it sound as if this was something obvious, like I should have been able to sense it all along.
The weight of her words hit me hard. A week before Kingston passed—she’d had this dream of heaven, of seeing those gates. It felt like another breadcrumb in the long, winding path of signs that Kingston, and maybe something beyond, had been leaving us. I took a deep breath, the moment expanding with a gravity that seemed to fill every inch of that tiny red car.
The old woman turned to me, her quiet, knowing gaze seeming to understand the emotions churning inside me. She’d heard everything—every unspoken wonder and hesitation, every thread of disbelief tangled up with the yearning for answers. Zuma and this stranger had just shared such vivid, intertwined memories of heaven, details so strikingly similar that it seemed impossible they hadn’t both truly glimpsed the same place.
Without meaning to, I found myself speaking aloud, almost to the air, “I’ve never been to heaven.” My voice came out with a jagged edge, resentment I hadn’t quite meant to reveal but that filled every word. “I’ve never even had a relationship with God deep enough to hear His voice.” The rawness of my tone hung heavy in the car, and I could feel Tatum’s steady gaze in the back, piercing into the back of my head.
The funny thing was, Tatum didn’t know me from a hole in the wall, to be honest. But in that moment, she felt as steady as Jaden would have been, like a quiet anchor letting me teeter on the edge of my grief without tipping over completely. She nodded along with my story, going along with my rehashing of it without question, as if to reassure me that I wasn’t completely crazy for grasping onto these signs.
In that tiny, red car, I felt a strange sense of being seen, grief and all. Tatum’s presence, Zuma’s innocent certainty, and the old woman’s serene faith held space for me, even though none of them truly knew my journey. Somehow, in their own ways, they each made room for my sorrow, grounding me in the surreal connection of that moment.
As we pulled into the parking lot, the old woman reached over and patted my hand gently, a comforting, almost maternal gesture. I looked around, realizing we had arrived, that it was time to step out and eat. Yet, for a moment, time seemed to suspend itself in the cramped little car. I glanced at Zuma, who was already back to giggling as if the conversation hadn’t even happened.
The old woman turned to me, her eyes soft yet certain, and said, “He’s OK. He’s fine.” She gave me a thumbs up, and my heart skipped. My eyes widened, and I must have looked utterly shocked because she chuckled—a knowing, gentle laugh that seemed to say she understood. That thumbs-up was Kingston’s way, his words exactly: “I’m good, I’m fine, I’m OK.” The familiarity of it was too much to brush off. She looked me in the eyes, her face so kind, and said, “You need to be happy. He’s OK, and you’ll see each other again.”
I felt the ground tilt beneath me. There was no way she could’ve known. I darted my eyes around, searching the car for a lifeline, a familiar face that could anchor me. Tatum’s eyes met mine, steady as ever, her silent nod somehow grounding me. I caught Zuma’s gaze next—her eyes had gone wide, her mouth hanging open. She’d heard it too. Thank God, I thought, I’m not crazy.
I turned back to the woman, realizing I hadn’t even asked her name. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even get your name,” I said, feeling both rude and strangely in awe.
With a soft smile, she replied, “My name is Robin.” And then, as if we were one, we both spoke at the exact same time, my voice lifting in question and hers in a tone as steady as the sky: “Like the bird.”
A chill ran through me, a moment so surreal I almost couldn’t believe it. Here she was—a tiny old woman in a little red car, Kingston’s favorite color, arriving like something out of a dream. She looked at me, and it was as if Kingston was right there, sending this woman, this Robin, like the red bird that had visited Zuma every morning in Hawaii. Like the bird he had promised he would become, the joke he swore he would keep playing even after he was gone. And here she was, out of nowhere, to tell me he was OK, that he was fine, that I was going to be happy—with two thumbs up, no less, just like he always used to do.
It was a moment too perfectly crafted to be anything but Kingston himself, his way of keeping his promise to fly away together as birds, his laughter woven through every detail. I knew, right then and there, he was still with me—still watching, still loving, still keeping his promises. But while he sent me signs wrapped in gentle reminders and love, I knew Kingston had a different way of reaching out to others—particularly those who might not be so quick to believe.
For me, he’d sent this graceful message, a delicate, unmistakable sign. But for others, well…let’s just say Kingston had a mischievous side. And when it came to reaching someone as skeptical as Jaden, his signs had a way of showing up a little less elegantly.
