New York, and Goodbye

~ Stacy

In memory of our cherished friend, Adam Aaron Gray, who passed away unexpectedly on Sunday, June 14th, during our visit to New York City.

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Adam, we are forever walking toward the Brooklyn Bridge. ❤

“You’re here!” he shouted as Adria and I walked down the ramp at La Guardia and into his open arms. A navy and red Herschel pack pinned with an FIT button hung off his back, loaded with yesterday’s clothes and essentials for the day – wallet, metro card, Soda Stream bottle, umbrella.

“Nice rucksack,” I smiled.

“Thanks! I can go anywhere with this thing. I do go anywhere with it.”

“I bet you do.”

We grabbed our bags and weaved through swarms of travelers to the train, laughing when I made it through the turnstile but didn’t get my suitcase through before the metal arm locked shut. I tried swiping my card again a few times from the back side of the machine. I was stuck.

“I promise you’ll get the hang of it by the end of the weekend. It’s all in the shoulder,” he joked, mimicking a swipe through the card reader, then heaving my suitcase up and over the metal bar, and leading us to the train that would carry us to Brooklyn.

***

I know you were trying to play it cool as you looked over our must-see list for the weekend and categorized our stops with ones, twos, and threes. You wanted us to believe this was old hat for you after a few years in NYC, but I saw the wonder in your eyes too as we crossed the street to the Coney Island Boardwalk, grabbed a hot dog from Nathan’s, sprawled out on the Atlantic shore below the defunct Parachute Drop.

Did any of us really think this trip would happen when you mentioned it at Christmas time, when you vowed to be the “trusty tour guide” for two small-town girls from Michigan in a city of eight million?

So many circumstances interfered in the weeks before the trip. Family medical problems, financial hiccups, scheduling conflicts. The day before our scheduled departure, when you texted, “You guys are going to be in Brooklyn SO SOON,” I still didn’t believe it would all work out.

But the next day, somehow, our bags were packed, our problems checked. Adria and I kissed our husbands and children and made our way to the Milwaukee airport. Sitting in the concourse awaiting the boarding call, we snapped an airport selfie and fired it off to you with the caption, “This is HAPPENING.”

***

On Friday, our first full day in New York, we traipsed about the city, hopping trains between landmarks and points of interest like Grand Central Station, the 9/11 Memorial, Times Square, Radio City Music Hall, NBC Studios, the New York Public Library, Bryant Park, Chinatown, Little Italy, and of course, Lady Liberty from the Staten Island Ferry.

We walked over ten miles that day, but never felt overwhelmed or rushed. Adam patiently waited at each venue, allowing us to absorb what we could at each checkpoint, trying to capture the spectacle of it all with iPhone photos that could never do justice to this greatest of cities.

On the train ride back to Brooklyn, I scribbled notes onto the back of my three-page tour guide. Noticing what I was up to, he said, “I love seeing New York through someone else’s eyes.”

“SO MANY THINGS to remember!” I replied.

“I hope you write a lot about your experiences here. I did when I first arrived.”

“I don’t know how I could ever put it into words what I’ve seen here in just a day. That little boy in water wings building a sandcastle at Coney Island — he was Every Boy. Or the delivery guy hauling boxes of foam plates through the tiny trap door into the basement of Steve’s Bagels. Or how completely anonymous I was as we hustled through Manhattan, until my hand brushed a stranger’s hand.”

He smiled. “Write it down.”

“I’m gonna try,” I said. “But I wish I could do it like you do – put the perfect words to that place that we all feel, but none of us see  – that other plane.”

“You can,” he replied. “Don’t think about it. Just write that shit.”

***

On Saturday morning, as you jotted down the day’s agenda, I saw your hands tremble in anticipation of Lisa’s arrival. We knew you were excited for us to meet her — that you wanted us all to love each other the way you loved us.

You probably didn’t notice Adria and I smiling at each other as you chopped veggies and threw them into the crock pot so we could eat your “Famous Vegetarian Chili” that evening when we returned to the apartment. It was ninety-degrees in the city, and you were making us chili.

I bet you didn’t even notice the reds and blues of the laundry on the line in your courtyard as we left your apartment. Magnolias blooming along the High Line. Ducks plunging beneath the surface of the pond at Central Park.

You didn’t see Adria roll her eyes or hear me say, “Three-hundred ninety-two!” as you leaned over again and kissed Lisa beneath a floating canopy of Union Square bubbles.

You didn’t know, as I watched you, blissed out with your girl, that I was recalling our conversation from the night before.

“I have so many good things in place right now. Work. Lisa. Brooklyn. I feel like New York is my home now. I’m finally happy.”

***

That evening in Brooklyn, the four of us ate hot chili and hung out on the third-floor fire escape. We sang along to Piano Man from a homemade CD dubbed UPWP, and argued about which of us made the mix eight years ago when we met in grad school — when our friendship began.  We laughed at Adria’s stories about college shenanigans, then FaceTimed with Larry, Luke and Allison, wishing they were with us in New York, telling them so a dozen times. We played Sour Apples to Apples on the living room sofa sleeper as the cats brushed up against our ankles, happy, too, that we were home that last evening.

***

I don’t know how to write it, Adam.

Brooklyn. The bridge. The lights. Feral cats on the row of garage roofs. All the colors and beautiful people. Bodegas selling crates of discounted Speed Stick and the brightest peppers I’ve ever seen.

The way you traipsed all over the city in white leather shoes that made your heels bleed, all in the name of fashion.

Our last real conversation. The Avett Brothers. Walt Whitman. A Higher Power. The sly grin on your face when you said, “I don’t know exactly what God is, but I think when we die, we’re all going to be pleasantly surprised.”

I don’t know how.

How could I name the breeze through Bay Ridge on the morning you died? Dark roast espresso and the ferment of trash and fat roses.

Or the cool humidity of the Powerade cooler inside Rite Aid. Taylor Swift on the radio. The terror of your blood on the glossy linoleum floor. The minutes between a 911 call and the first cop through the automatic door.

The questions. The calls. The shallow breaths. Yours. Ours.

The moment I knew you were gone — when your spirit left your body on the floor beside a sunscreen display and whispered over me, “Goodbye, my beautiful friend” for the last time.

The ambulance ride to the trauma center. Nurses. Doctors. Papers. Words.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. I’m sorry. So very sorry.”

A plastic bag with your backpack inside. Your blood on our shoes in the cab back to your apartment.

The final checklist.

  • Call Southwest
  • contact coworkers and friends
  • find a home for Maggs and TS
  • gather belongings/papers for Larry
  • fridge, trash, unplug, etc.
  • lock up

***

I’m home, Adam. Somehow.

Michigan, where all of this began.

I’ve been at my desk all morning, just cranking this dial, trying to find your frequency so I can tell you what I need to tell you.

That the nurse who prepared you for our last goodbyes said, in her sweet Jamaican accent, how pleasant you were. That she usually has to wrestle the dead, but not you. You were so peaceful you almost appeared to smile.

That I know you always hated your chin, but when Lisa reached out and touched it in that curtained room, I could see how handsome it was to her.

That your building super Jimmy made the sign of the cross three times when we told him about your death, but later still bitched at us for not separating your trash properly.

That all the laundry on the courtyard line after you died was white.

That the cats are going to be fine.

That you were the gold-medalist of tour guides.

That we loved her the second we met her.

I’ll never know how to do this, Adam, how to write this. There are colors on the spectrum only you could see, and I don’t know how to name them. I don’t know how to net the words that bounce between us and within us, how to organize them into something that makes sense for all of us.

I don’t know how to shine up the world the way you could. Make us ache the way we want to ache and love the way we want to love.

How?

On Friday, I stood with you at the base of One World Trade Center, craning and squinting to see the spire – a bright arrow emerging from the quiver of your city. We traced the carved names on the reflecting pool wall, fingered the petals of a white rose, its stem tucked into a letter “R”. We watched the water drop over the ledge, then disappear.

We didn’t speak. There was no need. We held that space together – riding along on another plane of existence, feeling the poem between us.

And now I am the one who must write it.

To read Adam’s poetry, visit his blog, Dropped Calls

If you enjoyed this post, read more personal essay here.

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211 thoughts on “New York, and Goodbye”

  1. “Paradise By The Dashboard Lights”. That’s what Adam made me sing with him for karaoke at Flanagans in Marquette. Had to dump my kids at the motel to do it because he was persistent. Dangling stuff outside my classroom window because his was below mine and I could harass him. Singing and dancing onstage during a pep session….so many fun and ZANY memories. Goodbye Friend…

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  2. Stacy this is beautiful. I don’t know you, but I am glad Adam did.
    Adam and I grew up together in Ishpeming. We grew up playing little league baseball, kick the can, riding bikes and watching the Detroit Tigers.
    Over the years we both had separate interests and in the end we fell out of touch.
    We used to run into each other a few times a year when he was doing some teaching at NMU. No matter how late either of us were already late for class we had to spend a few minutes talking and catching up. And when neither of us had anywhere to go those conversations would often last upwards of an hour.
    Thank you for sharing this story of Adams last few days. It is beautifully written and brought with it some tears. I think it was meant to be for you to be there with him and so eloquently share his last moments with the rest of us. Thank you.

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    1. Thank you, Clif. I love hearing the memories of Adam from all of his many eras.

      On Saturday morning, Adam and I took an early morning walk to get a coffee. When we were about to go out the door, I paused and asked, “Wait, can I wear a Tigers shirt on the streets of Brooklyn?”

      “Hell yeah!” he replied. “Glad to know where your loyalty is!”

      His heart was in Michigan, no matter where he landed.

      How special that the two of you had those carefree chats at NMU — something you can hang onto forever.

      You are right that we were meant to be there, Clif. There are a dozen arrows that have pointed me to believe that it was all orchestrated. For that, I am eternally grateful.

      Thanks for sharing your memories and also your encouraging words, Clif. I appreciate them very much.

      Cheers,

      Stacy

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  3. Like many others, I was one of Mr. Gray’s students in high school. He always stuck out to me as one of a kind; so open, honest and trusting. I remember spending many lunch hours in his class room, it was always the place to go if you wanted to chill out. He held guitar lessons during lunch and a couple of us girls would go sing along. I only got to know him for a short time, but he taught me more than I could have imagined. RIP, Mr. Gray.

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    1. What wonderful experiences you shared with Mr. Gray, Kim. Thanks for sharing them with us too.

      The way you describe him as a teacher — kind, open, honest, trusting — is the same way I would describe him as a friend.

      We are all better because we knew him.

      Bless you, Kim.

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  4. Oh, my friend. What strength and grace are poised in each and every word you have written about your dear friend. My heart aches for you. God be with you.

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  6. I never met Adam in the 8 years that you called him a friend, but reading this and listening to your story today makes me feel like I knew him personally. I know there was a definite reason why you were there with him at the end of his life…I pray that God will continue to use you and this story to touch people’s lives. I love you…

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    1. Thanks, Sissy. He was incredible.

      I am certain I was placed there too. I have a list of reasons why, so that I never forget.

      Thanks for your love, support, and prayers. Love you heaps.

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  7. Mr. Gray wasn’t one of my teachers, but he allowed me to join his poetry club in my seventh grade year. I was having a hard time adjusting to the new school because every student and teacher was ready to assume the worst about me- but not Mr. Gray.
    For the duration of the most stressful year of my young life, that wonderful high school teacher extended a hand and accepted me. His classroom felt like a safe haven. He always had such high hopes for my older brother and I…
    Thank you for creating this, Stacy. It’s beautiful.

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    1. Yes! This is why we all loved him, Clare. No one was overlooked or written off. He loved people, and was amazing at relating to them. I don’t have to tell you that.

      Thank you so much for sharing these sentiments. Keep on telling the stories that keep Mr. Gray alive.

      Blessings, Stacy

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  8. Although he was only in my life for a year as an english teacher he was much more than that. He showed me the beauty, escape and serenity of music, how to indulge myself into every aspect of it, of my writing, of reading. He was such an inspiration for me even if I didn’t realize it until I had started my college career. He was always there for me as an awkward teenager just looking for a place to fit in. I often spent much of my free time in his classroom just listening to mixtapes other students would bring in or watch him playing the guitar with his eyes closed and just disappearing into his own world for a few minutes. He will truly be a treasure in Heaven, and I’m sure God will be pleasantly surprised with Mr. Gray as well. Thank you for this beautiful article.

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    1. Jacob, you nailed it — “He showed me the beauty…” He showed so many of us the beauty of the seen and unseen world. He helped us learn how to go there ourselves for both escape and inspiration. He would be thrilled to know we continue to seek that place now, even without our friend. Perhaps we can find him there, too?

      Thank you for these words, Jacob. So much comfort in remembering our friend with eyes closed, guitar in hands, going to places only he could see.

      Blessings, my friend. Stacy

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  9. my goodness, Stacy. I had been following your photos of your trip. And then, I saw your friend mention being home. And everything in between, you just filled in and made me feel there. I have to believe that you two were meant to be there at that time. And I don’t know why that would be a good thing for you to know I have to believe but I really think that. How incredibly real situations like this make life. While we don’t know each other, I feel like I know you through your words. Thank you for sharing them here. What an unfathomable loss.

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    1. Ashli, you’re right. We were placed there, undoubtedly. There are so many reasons why I believe that, and they bring me peace in a time that is so brutally hard and sad.

      Yes, situations like this place everything into perspective. They make me want to live bigger, love better, cherish beauty, and forget the rest. Adam would want that.

      Thank you for reading and for your kind words, Ashli. I appreciate you.

      Stacy

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  10. Adam was such an amazing guy! To know him was to love him. Knowing Adam was with dear friends enjoying the day is comforting. He will be greatly missed.

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    1. “To know him was to love him.” Yes! And you knew he loved you back.

      I’m glad you found some comfort in knowing he was enjoying himself with friends. I can tell you with certainty that Adam was full of joy in those last days. We were laughing and joking just minutes before he was gone. In the words of his friend, Lasse, “Adam was on the upswing.” He truly was.

      Thanks for sharing your thoughts about our friend.

      Blessings, Stacy

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  11. We haven’t met yet, I’m sure we will Friday – but, I now love you as much as I love Adam. Thank you for these words. Thank you.

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    1. So glad I got to meet you and squeeze you, Carole. I’m sorry for your loss, too. We all just adored him.

      Much love to you, Carole. I hope we can hang out some day to share memories and do something Adam-esque!

      Hugs, Stacy

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  12. Mr. Gray will be missed by all his students. He was such a great man and a favorite amungst his students. We will all keep the memories we had of this brilliant man in our hearts. His sweater vests will be forgotten. Miss you.

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    1. Alexa, I love this. He was a favorite among students, and a favorite among people in general, wasn’t he?

      I smile to think of him in class, wearing his sweater vests. I bet you all loved showing up to class to see what he was wearing, and what brilliant nuggets he had to share with you that day. He always had something brewing!

      Thank you for these sweet words. Keep sharing those stories.

      Blessings, Stacy

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  13. This man was not only a teacher but a role model that I respected very much, he was one of the only people outside my family that encouraged me to be what I wanted to be and told me one day “you can do anything you want Mr. Bardo you just have to want it enough, don’t let anyone especially yourself tell you that you can’t” those words have always and will always stick with me, as he inspired me to continue writing.

    He will be missed.

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    1. Oh, Zac, thank you for sharing this wonderful story.

      “Don’t let anyone tell you you can’t — especially yourself.” I can hear him saying this. And he lived it. He accomplished so much in his 32 years.

      I hope you keep him close to you throughout your life, inspiring you and encouraging you as you go after your goals. He would love that.

      Blessings, Stacy

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  14. This is beautiful. I still can’t believe he’s gone. He was my English Teacher in High School. He was such an amazing man. He always encouraged people to write about anything and everything. Mr. Gray and I would share our poems with each other. He always pushed me to continue writing. He will never be forgotten. ❤

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    1. Wasn’t he the best encourager, Brittany? I always shared my poetry with him, and even when it was total crap, he found something good in it!

      I’m so glad you had the chance to share poems with one another. What an opportunity to cherish always.

      Thanks for sharing these sentiments. It’s so comforting hearing that his students saw all the same things in him that his friends and family did. He was the real deal.

      Bless you, Brittany. Stacy

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    1. You did lose someone too — the whole world did. But when I read through these comments, I’m blown away by the power of his influence in just 32 years.

      Some folks are working on gathering his manuscripts for publication. I can’t wait to read them with you.

      Love you heaps.

      Stacy

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    1. Thank you, Susana.

      It is a brutal time for all who knew Adam, but when I read through these comments and listen to the stories, I still bubble over with love. Perhaps this is the true measure of a life well-lived?

      I appreciate your kindness.

      Blessings, Stacy

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