It’s been four months since Adam died.
Adria and I were visiting him in New York where he’d moved after accepting an associate professorship at Fashion Institute of Technology (FIT) in Manhattan. He invited us out for a vacation, vowing to be our trusty tour guide. We had an incredible three days of running around the city, seeing all the major touristy sights and a handful of gems we would never have found without him.
On the fourth day of the trip, Adria, Adam, Lisa (Adam’s girlfriend) and I set out to walk the Brooklyn Bridge and check out Adam’s favorite park, Washington Square.
He died, right before us on the floor of the Rite Aid where we’d stopped for an ATM transaction and a Gatorade on a 90 degree June morning. He died as we screamed and cried and prayed on our knees and waited for the paramedics to try resuscitating our friend.
We left New York in a daze the next morning, shocked at how this perfect vacation had ended in absolute horror.
Later that summer, Adam’s friend and coworker Lasse notified us that a service would be held in Adam’s memory at the university in the fall. Six of us (five of Adam’s friends and his sister, Samantha) quickly started figuring a way to get back to New York together.
On October 1st, Adria, Sam and I boarded a plane in Wisconsin, headed for Manhattan where we’d meet Luke, Scott, and our other friend Adam for a weekend of remembering and honoring our friend.
Dear Adam,
It was tough walking down the ramp at the airport without you there to greet us this time, or through the subway turnstile where we’d giggled each time one of us became trapped by the metal claw.
In the cab on the way to the hotel, your sister’s eyes were bright and wide. I thought of what you’d said back in June when Adria and I showed up to NYC for the first time…
I love seeing New York through someone else’s eyes.
That afternoon, we collected the guys from various planes and trains, and grabbed a quick bite before heading to FIT for your memorial.
When we rounded the corner into the conference room at the ceremony, there you were.
The memorial was rich and moving. Your boss, coworkers, and friends shared some of your poetry and offered written and musical tributes to you. It was wonderful to hear that they loved you for the same reasons we did — your humor, your tenderness, your style, and your incomparable knack for cheating at games and contests.
Samantha spoke too, sharing some details with the New York crowd about your family, your life back in Michigan. They were absorbed in hearing about you. Many of them whispered about how much she looked like you.
After the ceremony, we hugged and cried with your New York friends before Lasse walked us to one of your favorite pubs, Smithfield Hall.
We raised IPAs in your honor before hopping the train to Brooklyn to finally cross the Bridge on foot like we’d planned to do with you on the day you died.
The weather was wild, but we were unswerving.
Well, mostly.
The gusty wind was exhilarating.
The Gothic towers arched above, beckoning our passage.
The lights of Manhattan shone with extra glimmer in the rain, reflecting off the East River as we crossed over, hand in hand.
It was perfect.
Back in Manhattan, we trekked to Chinatown and shared plates of your favorite dumplings at Shanghai Cafe (I was slightly better with the chopsticks this time), before heading back to our SoHo hotel and sleeping hard on various beds, cots, and couches.
The next morning, we took the R train to Brooklyn.
When we emerged from the station onto the street, the Rite Aid was there before us, and it took the breath right out of me.
We crossed Bay Ridge Avenue and bought bagels at Steve’s. I ordered lox again, on your recommendation, and ate it looking out the window at the bench where we’d sat in June.
When we finished our breakfast, we crossed the street to the Rite Aid, inhaled collectively, and walked through the doors. Almost immediately, Springsteen came on the radio. We gasped and smiled, knowing The Boss had been your favorite, then wiped at our eyes with shirtsleeves.
Adria and I left a note at the pharmacy counter for the young employee who helped us care for you when you collapsed. We learned that it had been her first week on the job.
I told her who you were. I thought she might like to know something about the man she’d tried to save.
At the front of the store, we stood in the place where you died. The place you last walked in your black Chuck Taylors. Where you spoke your last words — about Gatorade. Where you last looked at us from behind dark-rimmed Warby Parkers.
The sunscreen display from June had been replaced with a tower of Busch Light cases. I braced myself against it, finding my legs, then walked to the cooler for a red Gatorade that I drank on the walk to your apartment, the walk past the house you’d joked you’d one day own.
The sidewalk in front of your apartment was empty. We stood on the stoop together for a few minutes before taking the basement tunnel into the empty courtyard, bare clotheslines dripping overhead.
I held my umbrella in my right hand and closed my eyes, opening my left palm to the rain. Your sister, thinking I was reaching out to her, put her hand in mine. I was so damn thankful she did.
The alley behind the apartment was quiet. We stared up at the third floor fire escape, pointing at your windows.
That was his bedroom. That was the music room.
The window sill of the music room held a line of plants. I was glad to see life there.
Before we walked away, I left half of my iced coffee on the front step, along with a line from one of your poems. I left your words all over the city that weekend.
We traveled back to Manhattan and visited the World Trade Center Memorial. The rain beat down on our umbrellas and fell loudly into the reflecting pools. The roar was both of power and of peace.
I stood in the same place we’d occupied beneath blue spring skies. On the wall before me, a bead of rain rolled down the stone and dropped into a letter N.
Back on Vesey Street, we found a pizza joint for lunch, folding our slices in half “longways,” the way you’d taught us in June.
We met Lisa and Lasse at Washington Square Park, your favorite park, to see “your bench,” the one that we (your family, friends, and coworkers) have dedicated to you.
The park was mellow in the rain. A few college kids launched pigeon attacks. An old man carrying a canvas bag shuffled along the sidewalk beneath the sycamores. The row of chess tables was vacant.
In fair weather, Lisa told us, the park is alive with the activity — street musicians, professionals on lunch breaks, children and curious dogs investigating the fountain on the plaza across from the marble arch.
We admired the plaque with your name inscribed on it and snapped some photos around the bench.
Then we made some silly, Mary-Poppins-style fun.
As I trailed behind the group of friends from the park back to the street, I smiled at the whole scene. Soggy pant-legs. Waterlogged shoes. Drippy umbrellas bobbing through the streets of Manhattan.
There was something about the rain that weekend that united us — in the way we hunched our shoulders and pressed on into the wind. The way we laughed when our umbrellas turned on themselves. The way we were wet, tired, blister-footed messes at the end of the day.
The way we were in it. Together.
New York. Manhattan. Brooklyn. The city. The rain. We were in it, and it was in us. In our hair, our shoes, our palms and our glasses.
Somehow, that cold, sloppy rain was exactly what we all needed.
On our last night in New York, we sang karaoke in a bizarre little room with a red vinyl couch and some kind of sexy-adventure-anime rolling between songs.
We tore it up, Adam. We did all of your favorites, and then some. Lisa rocked your girl, TS. Westhouse did this hilariously creepy version of “Brandy” (You’re a fiiiine girl…). Scott revived the Jackson Five and Luke came out of nowhere with “Oops! I Did it Again.” Sam did the most inspired rendition of “Nookie” one could imagine. Adria and I belted out some Heart, and the girls joined together for a far-too-dramatic performance of “Part of Your World” (because, ARIEL).
You would have loved it. Or maybe you would have been pissed that we butchered all your songs. But I swear we tried so hard. We bellowed “Born to Run” and “Crocodile Rock” in tones that wrecked our voices for days to come. We passed around crazy colorful sunglasses like the ones you always karaoked in, and did your funny little foot-shuffle at all the right moments. We draped arms over each other’s shoulders and when the perfectly absurd three hours was over, we hugged and wept, knowing we did you right.
The trip. The friends. The laughter through tears. It was all right.
When I left New York the first time, I was leaving the place where my dear friend died. But that night, Adam, that weekend, the people who loved you brought you back.
You were alive.
To read Adam’s poetry, visit his blog, Dropped Calls
If you enjoyed this post, read more personal essay here.
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Stacy
REVISIONS OF GRANDEUR 
Awesome post thank you.
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I’m so glad you enjoyed it. Thanks for letting me know. Best, Stacy
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This is such a beautiful post. It’s strange because all of the places you talk about are places I travel to/around everyday. And it’s strange to think that in the places I have stood, things of such spirit have happened. It’s good to know that all of these places have the presence of him, and it’s weird to think about the other souls that linger in places due to memories or daily routine. I will look for the plaque next time I visit the park. I am so sorry for you loss, but know that in life, when people truly touch you, a part of their soul always remains as a part of yours.
Shelby
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Shelby, it brings me such joy to think of you stopping by the park to read the plaque. I hope you and many others will sit down for a moment and enjoy a poem or a song with my dear friend.
I love what you said about the spirit of a person lingering in the spaces he/she occupied. I couldn’t agree more that my friend’s essence is still in the world, intertwined with both the ordinary and extraordinary details of life and living.
Your comment has really touched me. Thank you for your kind and comforting words.
Best, Stacy
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Everyone has to die, but not everyone has such a great friend who would remember him and celebrate his life the way you did. Forces of nature are unstoppable (both for good and bad). I still remain existentialist at the core, but once in a while I am awed by the human nature in a very positive manner.
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Thank you, John. Your words are true. I’m grateful to be part of such a wonderful group of friends. Best, Stacy
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Lovely sentiment. And a fitting tribute.
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Thank you so very much for reading about my friend. Best, Stacy
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What a beautiful tribute to your friend. I’m so sorry that you had to lose him and especially in that way. I was in NYC the same cold, wet, soggy weekend with my sons. I took them there because we used to live there, and now they are old enough to go back. The ironic thing is we were missing someone, too – my other son and their brother who lived there with them. He died of cancer. So I guess New York was sad that weekend over the loss of two beautiful souls. Many hugs and much love to you.
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Oh, Kathy, that IS ironic. I am so glad you shared it with me. I’m sorry you were feeling the same longing we were. I hope the rain was cleansing for you, as it was for us. I have read pieces of your story, and it is heartbreaking, but beautiful and tender. The loss of a child is unfathomable. I wish you comfort and peace, my friend. Thank you for reading and for the thoughtful comment.
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Very touching, so beautiful. It brought tears to my eyes, not because it rings of sincere sentiment but because its refreshing to see that someone took the time and effort to write such beautiful piece for a friend. Your friend’s life on this mundane earth may have ended, but his blessing of true friends continues….
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You are so right– and his friends and family continue to make efforts to be together in ways that honor him. He was the kind of friend everyone wishes to have. His life may have been short, but his impact was deep and wide. Thank you for reading and for the kind comment. Best, Stacy
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It sounds to me like karma; he’s received what he’s already put out there in the world.
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Thank you for the kind comment. Yes, Adam loved big, and was well-loved in return. He was a wonderful person to know and call a friend.
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Sorry for your loss. Truly
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Thank you, Elle. I’m grateful to all of you who have read about our friendship and experiences.
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Stacy, the way you had portray Adam it seemed so real. I am sorry for the loss which we really can not recompense. Thanks for sharing such a lovely story.
Regards, Chiradeep
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Chiradeep, your words bring comfort. I’m glad the piece brought Adam to life, just as the experience did. Thank you for reading about my friend and reaching out in kindness. Best, Stacy
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I can only imagine what you must have been through when Adam passed away. My deepest condolences for your loss. I smiled through this all, a smile that somehow signifies joy and sorrow at the same time while reading this. He sounds like an amazing guy, you all sound amazing. And you celebrated his life, after mourning his passing. That is heartwarming. Take care! 🙂
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Yes, the smile of both joy and sorrow — that’s what was written on our faces and our hearts. Thank you for taking the time to read about my friend and our experiences. I am amazed at how many people have reached out in kindness. Such a beautiful reminder that people are still good and loving. Stacy
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Sad but also warm. I feel like I know him and was teary eyed all through my reading. He lives on in his words. Will sure go read his poems.
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Mary, it brings me joy and comfort to hear you say that you feel like you know him, and that you will take a few moments to check out his poems. I’m so grateful that people are helping us to keep him alive through his memory and his work. Thank you, my friend. Blessings, Stacy
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Absolutely beautiful tribute to your friend. May you continue to heal and keep his memory alive forever.
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Thank you for taking the time to read about my friend and our experiences. I am so uplifted by the kind comments from compassionate people. Blessings, Stacy
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This is so beautiful and so vastly heartbreaking. Absolutely. What happened to him? I feel like if I know, I can begin to understand. Not knowing is devastating. Like I can’t get past it.
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It was devastating, indeed. He died from an underlying health condition of which he had no prior knowledge. None of us saw it coming. As traumatic as it was to watch our friend die, we are deeply grateful to have been there with him in his last days and moments. No one should die alone.
Thank you for reading, and for your concern. Best, Stacy
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A beautiful tribute. The photos are wonderful! I especially like the one of you all walking away under your umbrellas. I’m sure Adam was with you and had a blast!
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We really felt as though the essence of Adam was with us. It was beautiful and uplifting.
Thank you for reading about my friend and our experiences, and for reaching out in kindness.
Best, Stacy
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Félicitations pour ce post ! 🙂
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Thank you for reading about our friendship and experiences, Mandy. Best regards, Stacy
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Just beautiful. I am sorry for your loss
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Thank you for reading my words and reaching out in kindness. Best, Stacy
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🙂
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Life can be cruel sometimes and I think we’re hoodwinked in thinking or being told we’ll all live long and die old. It’s important to remember the life they had or how we enjoyed our time with them rather than think what might have been.
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You’re right that we expect to live to an old age, especially with our ever-advancing science and technology. It seems Adam crammed more life into his years than anyone else I know. His impact was deep, wide, and lasting. I’m so grateful to have been his friend.
Thank you for reading my words and sharing these thoughts. Best, Stacy
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You’re welcome, I’ll let you in to why I think like that. My youngest son had eye cancer when he was born and he lost an eye,he’s now 15 and well,but some of the others weren’t so fortunate. Kids as young as four running around one month,departed thanks to luekemia on our following visit the next,changed my life almost overnight.
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What a sad and poignant experience. I’m sorry about your son’s trouble, and glad he’s okay now.
What you express is so true — we are a vapor, here one moment and gone the next. What will we do in the short time we have with what we’ve been given?
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