Sitting on the Porch

When I used to come home for the summer from college, I would sometimes watch my grandfather Perry Carlisle with a cigarette in hand sitting outside alone on the porch. At that time, he was in his late 50s, early 60s. I often wondered, what was he thinking? Was he reflecting on a life lived? Was he lamenting life’s regrets? Was he still dreaming about life’s possibilities? Between those puffs of smoke, was he being contemplative?

Hanging out with my baby Uncle Big Marc

With 55 right around the corner for me, I find myself being contemplative more and more–today especially as I think about my Uncle Marc who would have turned 54 if it weren’t for his untimely death in November. It’s hard to believe that the big guy isn’t here. I feel the same way about my friend Keir who also left this world in November 2022 just before turning 54 on Dec. 8th. At my age, I have seen plenty of deaths starting when I was ten years old and my grandmother Ellen had me pay respects to a family friend who had been murdered. I remember how strange it was to see this man, in his 30s at the time, in a suit in a casket not really looking like himself. I remember my hesitation and trepidation walking up to his casket with my grandmother nudging me forward. She understood the ritual of death and the expectations, and she was preparing me in this tradition of viewing, funeral, and repast. Since that time, I’ve lost many people close to me—parents, grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, in-laws, and friends. The first deaths that hit someone close to my age was the passing of my cousin Greg, more brother than cousin, who died in 2000 at the age of 31, and my friend Kevin North, also in his 30s, who died in 1999. They were my contemporaries. Their deaths were shocking. They were too young to be gone. Their deaths just seemed unfair and too soon.

My best friends Keir Kimbrough and Shawn Bell helping me celebrate my 13th birthday.

With the recent passing of Marc and Keir, their deaths have taken me to a different place. They didn’t die tragically young or expectantly old. They had lived long enough to stack up accomplishments, but they both still had so much left to do. They had lived long enough to have made mistakes, missteps, miscues, but they were still young enough to recoup, recover, rediscover. They were old enough to have some regrets but young enough to be able to live a long life not dwelling in those regrets. They had left their marks. They had left their legacies. With Keir, in addition to his family, his influence extended to his San Diego community, where he worked as a longtime high school football coach. He touched countless lives, mentoring many young men and serving as a role model. Marc, although so much greatness left unfulfilled, also touched countless lives as witnessed by the outpouring of love during his homegoing  ceremony. His bigger than life personality, his humor, his sensitivity, his kindness, his intellect, drew so many people to him.  Who Marc was, the impact he left, could not be more profound than in the heartwarming tearful testimonies at the funeral that his daughters gave of their father– of the kind of dad he was. Marc had achieved.

 Yes, Marc’s and Keir’s deaths hit differently–maybe because it’s my age now, maybe it’s because their deaths remind me that our time, my time, here is not infinite—it’s finite. It’s the reality that the balance of time has shifted for me, for people my age. We’re moving in a direction where we have lived more of life than we have life left to live. That realization puts things in perspective. Marc’s and Keir’s deaths force me to reflect on my life and possible legacy. Their deaths also push me to continue to hope, dream, and work for aspirations yet unfulfilled as I take on Perry Carlisle’s posture with cigar in hand deep in solitary thought.