Part One
It was sometime in April, late spring of 2024. Kingston was deep into his radiation treatments, and the air around us was heavy with an unspoken truth. I had just learned the news I had been dreading—there would be no miracle this time. No last-ditch treatment to turn things around. I felt the ground fall away beneath me, the world growing blurry and disorienting. I grasped at anything that could anchor us, anything that could give us some sense of connection and peace in the face of the inevitable. That’s when I decided it was time for Kingston to watch The Notebook.
It wasn’t just a film to me; it was a story of timeless love, of souls crossing the boundaries of life and death. I had watched it countless times before, but this time would be different. I needed to use the story to prepare us, to open a conversation I was terrified to have. I wanted him to understand, to find comfort in the idea that love could transcend even the most final of endings. I wanted to show him that this wasn’t the end of our story.
We nestled into the couch, the room dim and quiet, the soft glow of the television our only light. Kingston sat close, his eyes already fixed on the screen, that old-soul wisdom reflecting back at me. As the movie unfolded, I kept glancing at him, my heart pounding in my chest. Would he pick up on what I was trying to convey? As Noah and Allie’s story wove its magic, I felt Kingston’s calm presence beside me. He was watching, absorbing, and I knew—just knew—he was catching onto the deeper meaning, the message I was trying to send through this shared experience.
The movie ended, and a thick silence filled the room. My stomach twisted as I turned to him, searching for the right words. I had rehearsed this moment in my head so many times, but now that it was here, I felt my voice falter.
“You know,” I began, each word feeling like a fragile thread I was spinning, “if we love each other enough, nothing can really keep us apart. Not even death.”
His eyes met mine, deep and steady, urging me to continue. I could see the understanding there, his quiet acceptance of this difficult truth.
“When it’s time for one of us to go,” I choked out, my voice quivering, “No one has to be left behind. We can fly away together, like birds.” I forced a shaky smile, trying to break the tension, to keep from unraveling. “But you better not leave me here, slow on the ground with no wings. Don’t you go off to be some super-fast bird that flies while I’m stuck here, on the ground, as a slow, chubby, waddling penguin!”
He giggled then, a sound that broke through the gloom like sunlight piercing through a stormy sky. It was a balm, that laughter, a fleeting moment where we both could breathe. His hand locked with mine, his small fingers squeezing with more strength than I thought possible.
“I won’t leave you here alone,” he promised, his voice filled with that inexplicable wisdom he carried. It was as if he already knew things I had yet to grasp.
In that instant, the idea of flying away together became our unspoken pact, a way to face the approaching storm with a touch of lightness. Over the next few weeks, we revisited this idea, layering it with jokes and laughter to mask the shadows lurking in the corners of our lives. We talked about him soaring high with his powerful wings, while I struggled begrudgingly along, a far, wobbly penguin, my favorite animal. Somehow, it became a comfort to imagine myself that way, trailing behind yet always close. I didn’t realize then, but there was more to that idea—a hint, a veiled message—that would only make sense much later.
—
Months slipped by in a blur of hospital visits, treatments, and whispered goodnights. And then, one day, he was gone. It was all over. My world imploded, shattering into a million pieces. As hard as I had tried to prepare myself for that moment, the day when he would have no choice but to fly away, when it finally came, I was anything but ready. In the instant Kingston took his final breath, I felt the earth shift beneath me, the air around us growing thick and heavy. My heart was wrenched in two. One half remained behind, grounded here on earth, my physical body still tied this world, while the other half slipped away with with his spirit, into a realm unknown.
It was as if the very essence of my soul had been ripped from my chest, leaving a gaping void that throbbed with a pain deeper than anything I had ever felt. My body felt cold and hollow, like all of the light and energy that had to exists within a person to be “alive” had been drained from my physical self, leaving behind an empty shell. My love, my life, my very breath had been so entwined with his. Without Kingston, I was no longer whole, a part of me forever lost to this world.
Even in that dark moment of grief, when I was drowning in sadness and brokenness, there was something else—something I couldn’t fully explain. It didn’t feel like the missing part of me had died; rather it felt lost, somewhere out there, calling to me. It reminded me of the stories you hear about twins, how one can sense the other’s fear or pain while being half a world apart. I felt a subtle, almost imperceptible tug, a pull from a place I couldn’t name.
It’s possible that it was overwhelming grief clouding my mind, but I had this strange urge to search for the missing piece of me. How could that make any sense? How could I find something that had seemingly dissolved into the ether or vanished like mist in the morning sun? Kingston was dead. According to everything I had ever believed, dead was final. Gone. Nothing more.
And yet, despite all the logic and disbelief that tried to anchor me, to tether me to this way of thinking—the belief that there was no afterlife, nothing more beyond our physical selves—there was an insistent echo, soft yet powerful, hinting that part of him, part of us, still existed far beyond the world we can touch and see, just waiting for me to discover it.
Every day, I wandered through depths of my grief, searching for signs of him—anything that could bridge the vast chasm his passing had left in my heart. I recounted our conversations to friends, dissecting each word, each fleeting moment, searching for the traces he had left behind, the clues he had promised to scatter like stars across a darkened sky. I dove headfirst into every religion, explored new beliefs, and listened to every perspective I could find, desperate to uncover a portal, a secret passageway that might lead me back to him.
——
to be continued…
It was sometime in April, late spring of 2024. Kingston was deep into his radiation treatments, and the air around us was heavy with an unspoken truth. I had just learned the news I had been dreading—there would be no miracle this time. No last-ditch treatment to turn things around. I felt the ground fall away beneath me, the world growing blurry and disorienting. I grasped at anything that could anchor us, anything that could give us some sense of connection and peace in the face of the inevitable. That’s when I decided it was time for Kingston to watch The Notebook.
It wasn’t just a film to me; it was a story of timeless love, of souls crossing the boundaries of life and death. I had watched it countless times before, but this time would be different. I needed to use the story to prepare us, to open a conversation I was terrified to have. I wanted him to understand, to find comfort in the idea that love could transcend even the most final of endings. I wanted to show him that this wasn’t the end of our story.
We nestled into the couch, the room dim and quiet, the soft glow of the television our only light. Kingston sat close, his eyes already fixed on the screen, that old-soul wisdom reflecting back at me. As the movie unfolded, I kept glancing at him, my heart pounding in my chest. Would he pick up on what I was trying to convey? As Noah and Allie’s story wove its magic, I felt Kingston’s calm presence beside me. He was watching, absorbing, and I knew—just knew—he was catching onto the deeper meaning, the message I was trying to send through this shared experience.
The movie ended, and a thick silence filled the room. My stomach twisted as I turned to him, searching for the right words. I had rehearsed this moment in my head so many times, but now that it was here, I felt my voice falter.
“You know,” I began, each word feeling like a fragile thread I was spinning, “if we love each other enough, nothing can really keep us apart. Not even death.”
His eyes met mine, deep and steady, urging me to continue. I could see the understanding there, his quiet acceptance of this difficult truth.
“When it’s time for one of us to go,” I choked out, my voice quivering, “No one has to be left behind. We can fly away together, like birds.” I forced a shaky smile, trying to break the tension, to keep from unraveling. “But you better not leave me here, slow on the ground with no wings. Don’t you go off to be some super-fast bird that flies while I’m stuck here, on the ground, as a slow, chubby, waddling penguin!”
He giggled then, a sound that broke through the gloom like sunlight piercing through a stormy sky. It was a balm, that laughter, a fleeting moment where we both could breathe. His hand locked with mine, his small fingers squeezing with more strength than I thought possible.
“I won’t leave you here alone,” he promised, his voice filled with that inexplicable wisdom he carried. It was as if he already knew things I had yet to grasp.
In that instant, the idea of flying away together became our unspoken pact, a way to face the approaching storm with a touch of lightness. Over the next few weeks, we revisited this idea, layering it with jokes and laughter to mask the shadows lurking in the corners of our lives. We talked about him soaring high with his powerful wings, while I struggled begrudgingly along, a far, wobbly penguin, my favorite animal. Somehow, it became a comfort to imagine myself that way, trailing behind yet always close. I didn’t realize then, but there was more to that idea—a hint, a veiled message—that would only make sense much later.
—
Months slipped by in a blur of hospital visits, treatments, and whispered goodnights. And then, one day, he was gone. It was all over. My world imploded, shattering into a million pieces. As hard as I had tried to prepare myself for that moment, the day when he would have no choice but to fly away, when it finally came, I was anything but ready. In the instant Kingston took his final breath, I felt the earth shift beneath me, the air around us growing thick and heavy. My heart was wrenched in two. One half remained behind, grounded here on earth, my physical body still tied this world, while the other half slipped away with with his spirit, into a realm unknown.
It was as if the very essence of my soul had been ripped from my chest, leaving a gaping void that throbbed with a pain deeper than anything I had ever felt. My body felt cold and hollow, like all of the light and energy that had to exists within a person to be “alive” had been drained from my physical self, leaving behind an empty shell. My love, my life, my very breath had been so entwined with his. Without Kingston, I was no longer whole, a part of me forever lost to this world.
Even in that dark moment of grief, when I was drowning in sadness and brokenness, there was something else—something I couldn’t fully explain. It didn’t feel like the missing part of me had died; rather it felt lost, somewhere out there, calling to me. It reminded me of the stories you hear about twins, how one can sense the other’s fear or pain while being half a world apart. I felt a subtle, almost imperceptible tug, a pull from a place I couldn’t name.
It’s possible that it was overwhelming grief clouding my mind, but I had this strange urge to search for the missing piece of me. How could that make any sense? How could I find something that had seemingly dissolved into the ether or vanished like mist in the morning sun? Kingston was dead. According to everything I had ever believed, dead was final. Gone. Nothing more.
And yet, despite all the logic and disbelief that tried to anchor me, to tether me to this way of thinking—the belief that there was no afterlife, nothing more beyond our physical selves—there was an insistent echo, soft yet powerful, hinting that part of him, part of us, still existed far beyond the world we can touch and see, just waiting for me to discover it.
Every day, I wandered through depths of my grief, searching for signs of him—anything that could bridge the vast chasm his passing had left in my heart. I recounted our conversations to friends, dissecting each word, each fleeting moment, searching for the traces he had left behind, the clues he had promised to scatter like stars across a darkened sky. I dove headfirst into every religion, explored new beliefs, and listened to every perspective I could find, desperate to uncover a portal, a secret passageway that might lead me back to him.
Weeks after he crossed over, in the midst of my searching, I found myself sitting with a medium. The room was dim, the marine layer of thick fog that hovered over the Pacific Ocean had crept its way to the shore, muddling the view out of her third-floor window, the atmosphere heavy with the anticipation of something unseen. I needed to know he was still with me, needed to feel his presence to keep myself from unraveling completely.
The medium’s eyes closed as if peering past the impenetrable curtain that separated our worlds. She paused, her brow furrowing as if concentrating on something distant.
“He’s showing me… a movie… Did you watch something with significance?” she questioned; her voice laced with certainty yet tinged with hesitation.
My breath caught in my throat. Of course, I thought, she must be referring to that night we watched The Notebook together, the night we used the story to face what we both knew was coming. It had been a profound moment; one I had clung to in the weeks since his passing. But as the days stretched on, the significance of The Notebook began to twist and evolve, like a vine that had grown arms, each with hands that reached out, grabbing at me, trying to pull me into the ground where it was rooted.
Not long after, in a moment of raw, heartbreaking grief, I began to see the patterns. I recalled telling one of my girlfriends, the day after meeting with the medium, how I needed to explore the idea of past lives—if it were even possible that idea could be real. I remembered being told more than once since Kingston’s passing that this life, our adventure here wasn’t our first journey together. The notion of a soul contract—an ancient promise made long before this life—echoed in my mind, and suddenly, it all started to make sense. The Notebook wasn’t just a conversation starter about death; it was his way of pointing me back to our eternal connection. It was his reminder of our unbroken bond, a signpost telling me that this story was far from over.
—
Two days after meeting with the medium, I woke up with a strange and overwhelming realization. It was a Tuesday—I remember that much. I woke up crying, not from a dream I could recall, but from a profound sense of knowing that had washed over me out of nowhere. As I sat there, heart pounding, it felt like a floodgate had opened, releasing truths I had buried deep within myself for so long.
I knew, in that instant, that I had always known more than I was willing to admit, even while Kingston was alive. It was as if a veil had finally lifted, revealing what had been lurking in the shadows of my mind. Maybe I had been in denial my whole life, stubbornly blocking out this deeper understanding. But now, for some reason, it had come rushing to the surface. I was in tears, overwhelmed by the realization that I had ignored so many signs, pushing away the truth that I somehow always knew. I couldn’t believe how much I had blinded myself to what was right in front of me.
The Michael Jordan poster that hung in Kingston’s room was more than just an image; it was a message that had been staring at me for years. It had been hanging in his room for as long as I could remember, its image a constant backdrop in our daily lives. But I had never truly seen it until after Kingston was gone. Only in his death did I begin to understand what his real purpose had been.
Across the top, in bold letters, it said WINGS. Below the image of Michael Jordan was a quote from William Blake:
“No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings.”
The quote now felt like the missing piece to this elaborate puzzzle, a reminder that our journey wasn’t about being carried but about finding the strength to rise on our own. Kingston’s true purpose finally came into sharp focus: to guide me to this revelation, to show me that no matter how high he soared, I would eventually find my own wings. It was as if he had been preparing me all along, practically slapping me in the face with signs of the path that lay ahead. He was everywhere, leaving hints of the strength it would take for both of us to fly freely, to be present everywhere and anywhere at once.
He had always known the road ahead, but he couldn’t just take me with him or lay it all out for me. Why did I always do that—ignore the obvious, torturing myself with the idea that I knew it all? Kingston had been leading me to water for as long as I can remember, and only now did I finally see it. I had to come to this understanding on my own, to feel the awakening that was slowly beginning to dawn on me. I had to be led to this very moment, to experience the confusion, the grief, and the love in its rawest form. This was the agreement our souls had made long before we came back to this place and time.
It had to be his love, so pure and unwavering, that would draw me in, just close enough to be willing to listen, to be open to hearing the message from God. I realize now that only through Kingston could I receive this truth. God knew I was too stubborn, too jaded by life to hear Him directly. The message of love, of the universe’s greater plan, had to come from the one person I trusted more than anything in this world—my own son. The boy who had stared death in the face, fearlessly and with grace, from the time he was old enough to understand.
It was Kingston who showed me that this life is just one part of our eternal journey. And it was through his quiet bravery and boundless love that I began to sense the awakening stirring within me, the dawning realization that there is more—so much more—that connects us beyond the limits of this world.
—
For the love of God, Maile, how could you miss all of this? The longer I sat in reflection, the more I realized just how much had been staring me in the face for years, even my entire life. No matter how hard I tried to avoid this inevitable moment of reckoning with the universe, it had always lassoed me back into the center of the storm. I had fought against it time and time again, stubbornly clinging to the illusion of control. Yet, each time, I found myself forced to surrender to the truth: I wasn’t the one in control. Life, with all its gifts and lessons, would come to me only if I was willing to let go and trust. My God, this had been the theme of my entire existence.
I was meant to be that penguin, waddling behind as he flew ahead. Yet, as I dove deeper into what the penguin symbolized, I discovered it wasn’t just about being flightless; it was about embodying unconditional love and loyalty. The realization struck me like a whisper on the wind—Kingston had left me this clue, this piece of the grand design, to show me that our love, His love, God’s love, is eternal and unbreakable. I could feel all the fear of being left behind dissolve, replaced by a profound sense of purpose. I wasn’t ever meant to be some helpless bird floundering on the ground, lost or afraid. I am a vital part of the story, a narrative so much larger than most could ever begin to imagine, an endless tale that is destined to stretch far beyond the boundaries of this life and this physical world.
The surge of love and surrender that flooded me in that moment was overwhelming. It felt like acknowledging a truth that had been nestled in my heart for an eternity, waiting for me to just open my eyes. I felt an indescribable joy, a rush of connection to the universe, and to God. It was as if I had finally tapped into the true power of existence itself, realizing that I am part of something infinite. And in that acceptance, that acknowledgment of truth, I found not defeat, but the peace and strength I had been yearning for.
The medium’s mention of The Notebook had been another nudge from him, urging me to see the truth. The movie had given us the words to face death together, but now, it served as a symbol of our endless promise. A reminder that our love could, and would, carry us through whatever lay beyond.
As I sat there, surrounded by the echoes of our memories and the faint scent of incense, I felt him near me. It was as if he was whispering in my ear, urging me not to look back in fear but to move forward with trust. He was soaring, yes, but I wasn’t left behind. Whether I waddled along like a penguin or took flight in ways I had yet to imagine, we were still on this journey together. Our story hadn’t ended. It never would. Kingston had known, all along, leaving me these clues—hidden, mysterious messages to guide me back to him, to our love that spanned lifetimes.
—