Bros
Being Clay’s friend was truly a gift. If you knew Clay, you knew the honest light that he was able to bring into any room and any conversation. He lived his life hard and completely unfiltered. Yes, his life was cut far too short, but he lived and loved more in his 27 years than most of us, if we’re lucky, will live in 60.
I use to imagine us all growing old together: He’d be there standing next to me (or close to me because picking my best man still isn’t a lock) at my wedding; we’d take our sons camping and teach them the ways of the woods; on Saturdays, we would tailgate before the MSU football games; and on weeknights we’d injure ourselves playing softball at the River—where he would somehow become the best hitter on the team … Okay, so that last one was pushing it. But, we would grow old gracefully and peacefully, reliving all of our old stories and reminiscing about how we got to where we are.
I didn’t know that that was this year. This was the year we would grow old together. This was the year we would share our last memories. One last everything. The stories we shared on our front porch are the only glory days I get to relive with him. All the fears and hopes we shared together are mine, now. And it’s crushingly lonely. He won’t be at my wedding, though I will wear his ashes around my neck, and I will have him. We won’t take our sons camping together. He won’t be there the next time I’m in a fight, either. And, we won’t get arrested for being drunk and disorderly at an MSU football game in our 50s. Maybe that last one is a bonus. Nah, I'll miss that, too.
It hurts. It’s not the normal type of hurt. I’m no stranger to pain or agony. When you live a life of love, you learn to lose because of the temporary nature of this beast we call life. But this—this is different. It’s more empty than what I’ve ever felt before. I can’t see the bottom, and my cries only return to me from the echo of the crumbling walls leading down. Down. Right now that is the only direction.
Sometimes the loss and my experience that night leads me tumbling, bouncing off the rocks only to feel the shock of something, something human—anything human. The numbness that comes from reaching terminal velocity is terrifying. The pain reminds me that I’m alive. I’m still here. And I’m not alone. I have support. I have a reason to snap out of this. And I do.
I won’t ever have Clay as a friend again, but I will always have him. I wear a different hat, now. I wear his hats: what he left for me, who he was. I don’t know what stories I will share in the future to show you what we are all missing; there are so many to choose from. I don’t know how I will ever live in his honor; there are too many ways to honor him. Do I try to be as strong as he was, both physically and spiritually? Do I write and perform more music? That may be hard. He knew all the words to my songs and would sing them around the house and at work. I still hear his voice in my head. Do I go hiking and loose myself in the love of Mother Nature? Do I even have the strength to do anything besides stabilize my life and hold on to everything I care about before it is ripped away from me? I know there is a message in all of this: a lesson to be learned. I will find it.
All in time. I need more time. We all need more time. We all want more time …
I can’t leave this alone without saying something positive and encouraging. During the chaos, a good friend of mine messaged me and told me this:
I use to imagine us all growing old together: He’d be there standing next to me (or close to me because picking my best man still isn’t a lock) at my wedding; we’d take our sons camping and teach them the ways of the woods; on Saturdays, we would tailgate before the MSU football games; and on weeknights we’d injure ourselves playing softball at the River—where he would somehow become the best hitter on the team … Okay, so that last one was pushing it. But, we would grow old gracefully and peacefully, reliving all of our old stories and reminiscing about how we got to where we are.
I didn’t know that that was this year. This was the year we would grow old together. This was the year we would share our last memories. One last everything. The stories we shared on our front porch are the only glory days I get to relive with him. All the fears and hopes we shared together are mine, now. And it’s crushingly lonely. He won’t be at my wedding, though I will wear his ashes around my neck, and I will have him. We won’t take our sons camping together. He won’t be there the next time I’m in a fight, either. And, we won’t get arrested for being drunk and disorderly at an MSU football game in our 50s. Maybe that last one is a bonus. Nah, I'll miss that, too.
It hurts. It’s not the normal type of hurt. I’m no stranger to pain or agony. When you live a life of love, you learn to lose because of the temporary nature of this beast we call life. But this—this is different. It’s more empty than what I’ve ever felt before. I can’t see the bottom, and my cries only return to me from the echo of the crumbling walls leading down. Down. Right now that is the only direction.
Sometimes the loss and my experience that night leads me tumbling, bouncing off the rocks only to feel the shock of something, something human—anything human. The numbness that comes from reaching terminal velocity is terrifying. The pain reminds me that I’m alive. I’m still here. And I’m not alone. I have support. I have a reason to snap out of this. And I do.
I won’t ever have Clay as a friend again, but I will always have him. I wear a different hat, now. I wear his hats: what he left for me, who he was. I don’t know what stories I will share in the future to show you what we are all missing; there are so many to choose from. I don’t know how I will ever live in his honor; there are too many ways to honor him. Do I try to be as strong as he was, both physically and spiritually? Do I write and perform more music? That may be hard. He knew all the words to my songs and would sing them around the house and at work. I still hear his voice in my head. Do I go hiking and loose myself in the love of Mother Nature? Do I even have the strength to do anything besides stabilize my life and hold on to everything I care about before it is ripped away from me? I know there is a message in all of this: a lesson to be learned. I will find it.
All in time. I need more time. We all need more time. We all want more time …
I can’t leave this alone without saying something positive and encouraging. During the chaos, a good friend of mine messaged me and told me this:
I didn't know Clay well at all, but his sweet face is so familiar from his time at Kickapoo. I do remember him always being kind and sweet and friendly. (Wouldn't we all love to be remembered that way?) [...]
One thing I know is that you live life in such a way that the people around you know that you love them. There is no doubt in my mind that Clay knew how much you loved him. (Again, if only we could all live that way!)
Live your life that way! People always say that actions speak louder than words. I say do both: tell of love and live in love. Grow old while you're still young. Regret nothing. Remember everything.
Clay would fucking kill me if I ever said, "Rest in peace" to him (that was never his style), so I say, "Keep kicking ass, Clayton Kent Stevens." I’ll be missing you.
Clay would fucking kill me if I ever said, "Rest in peace" to him (that was never his style), so I say, "Keep kicking ass, Clayton Kent Stevens." I’ll be missing you.
RSS Feed