His Name Was Kingston: Grief, Laughter, and Surviving the Night
Dragging myself out of the house that night felt like dragging my soul behind me. Zuma was staying at her dad’s for the first time since Kingston passed, and the idea of being alone in the house was suffocating. I knew if I stayed, the silence would close in and I’d unravel. Thankfully, my girlfriend knew it too.
She flew in late Saturday night, her presence like a lifeline. The moment she walked through the door, she announced, “You’re not staying here. Get dressed. We’re going out.”
I groaned, sinking into the couch. “I’m gross.”
“I don’t care. We’re doing this,” she said, practically dragging me toward the closet.
So I threw on some jeans and mascara, figuring I’d go through the motions, make an appearance, and slip out quietly before things got too heavy. But that’s not how the night went.
The Ultimate Douche Repellent
We headed to the strip of bars on Hermosa Beach Pier and settled at American Junkie, the least gross option we could find. The air was thick with sweat, cologne, and tequila, the music vibrating through my chest. I wasn’t there to have fun—just to drown in the noise and escape my own thoughts for a bit.
We grabbed a table, and before I could even order my usual double whiskey coke, I noticed them—two guys circling nearby, trying to work up the nerve to approach us.
I leaned toward my friend and whispered, “Don’t worry. I’ve got the ultimate douche repellent locked and loaded.”
She grinned. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”
“The second they get too close or act weird, I’ll just say, ‘My kid just died from cancer.’ Works every time.”
She snorted into her drink. “You’re terrible.”
“Foolproof,” I said, smirking. “Weird as hell, but it works.”
Trying to Be Normal
Sure enough, the two guys finally made their move. I told myself, Okay, just act normal. Blend in. Whatever ‘normal’ even means these days. I gave it a solid five minutes before I found myself scrolling through pictures of Kingston on my phone without even realizing it.
One of the guys locked in on me—drunk, giving off major baby Will Ferrell energy. Great. Just my luck. I didn’t catch his real name, so Baby Will Ferrell it is.
He leaned in closer, squinting at my phone. “Hey, what’s his name?”
I took a deep breath. “His name was Kingston,” I said. “And he died of cancer three months ago.”
The Shift
I braced myself for the awkward silence or an excuse to leave. It’s usually the part where people stammer a quick apology and back away, overwhelmed by the weight of the conversation.
But instead of leaving, they sat down.
Whiskey and Truth Bombs
I have a habit of ordering double whiskey cokes knowing full well I’ll never finish them. It’s not about the drink—it’s just a way to stay busy, to look like I belong. I’ll order two, sometimes three, and leave them untouched. No one notices until the next morning when they’re piecing together their night and realize I never actually drank anything.
So there I was, holding my untouched drink, waiting for them to bolt. But they didn’t. They stayed.
Once I started talking about Kingston, it all just poured out. I told them how much he loved claw machines and Pokémon, how his playlist swung from The Beatles to Justin Bieber without missing a beat. I even shared the peanut butter sandwich story—the one where I completely lost it and punched Zuma’s lunch into oblivion. They laughed, and so did I.
Then, the conversation shifted without me meaning it to. I found myself sharing more—how much Kingston loved life, how fiercely he fought.
What surprised me most was that these two guys, who had probably thought they were flirting five minutes ago, stayed through it all. They listened—really listened. I watched their faces change as my words sank in, saw their eyes well up with tears.
One of them cleared his throat. “I… I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything,” I told him with a small smile. “It’s just nice to talk about him.”
Saying His Name Keeps Him Alive
Talking about Kingston is how I keep him with me. It’s how I say, “He mattered, he still matters, and I’ll carry him with me forever.” And when someone listens—sober or not, pretending to care or just being polite—it makes the unbearable just a little lighter.
People think silence is easier, but avoiding the subject only makes the burden heavier. Talking about him keeps him alive in the only way I have left. Saying his name is like a life preserver, pulling me out of the isolation that grief creates.
That night at the bar, even if those two guys were blacked out and didn’t catch everything, they stayed. And for a little while, the weight didn’t feel so crushing.
Love Spoken Out Loud
That’s the thing about grief—it doesn’t get worse when you talk about it. If anything, it makes the weight easier to carry. We hold them with us every second of every day, and saying their name keeps them close. Their stories become part of us, playing on a loop that never shuts off, whether we’re ready for it or not.
Being a bereaved parent feels like being cast outside the world, as if grief is contagious. People act like talking about Kingston will infect them with sadness they can’t escape. They avoid it, thinking they’re helping, but their silence only makes me feel more isolated.
Pretending Kingston never existed makes me feel invisible—and worse, like maybe I made him up. As if the surgeries, treatments, and endless cycles of hope and devastation were just a figment of my imagination. That thought makes me feel insane. When no one talks about him, it makes everything we endured—every heartbreak and desperate fight—feel like some pointless hell we went through over and over, like gluttons for punishment. And that cannot be the case. It just can’t.
He mattered. He mattered more than anything.
The “After Words”
Because sometimes, the most meaningful connection comes when someone is thoughtful enough to ask, “What was his name?” And in that moment, we feel seen. We feel acknowledged, as if our child’s existence truly mattered.
Loving Kingston out loud, through the “after words” we speak, is the only way to keep his spirit alive. Talking about his life—sharing the joy, the absurdity, and the heartbreak—preserves his memory in the most powerful way.
There’s no instruction manual for how to support someone through grief. But maybe there should be. And maybe I’ll have to make one. Through conversations about the hard stuff, mixed with humor, raw emotion, and unapologetic truth, there’s a recipe here for something magical—something worth sharing.
