He sits there alone on the subway seat, his body shaking from huge inconsolable sobs. A moment ago he was just sitting there quietly, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. A man in his late sixties, his Boston Red Sox cap its own promise of spring, of better days ahead. Then the crying erupted from his body in an instant, like lava spewed from a testy volcano. We are mostly alone on this Red Line subway car, he and I, at 7:45 on a Wednesday morning. I stare at his reflection in the darkened window while he continues to sob so hard I can almost feel his body shaking.
As the train glides into Harvard Square, the questions run through my mind like a fevered catechism.
Kenyatta Braithwaite. Always in our hearts!
Why, why why? Why did he have to die? He was so young; why him, why now? And what‘s ahead for his wife and young son?
Why indeed! I know this was my son-in-law, Kenyatta’s, journey, this early death of his, but still I have to ask “Why?” as if someone could ever explain such a cruel and unfair act of Fate. So cruel it seems malicious!
Keny was just 44, maybe 45, it doesn’t really matter. What matters is how young Keny was when he left us, how much greatness he still had left to discover; how many laughs left to share; how much of his warmth and loving presence (“Give me some sugar, baby!”) and hugs we’ll no longer enjoy. You can’t quantify the damage done; our family has been greatly diminished by my son-in-law’s loss and none of us can figure out what hit us or why?
I have seen this man sobbing elsewhere in the last 24 hours. On an elevator, in my local supermarket, sitting in the dark of his office, bathed in the glow of his computer screen. I have seen him break into tears and great, gushing sobs at a moment’s notice. It happened in the shower this morning. His sobs broke through my reverie. Whisking me from one second’s stillness into the next second’s frenzy of cries and wailing.
Was it the suddenness of Keny’s crisis, the tidal wave of ever-rising disaster that resulted from the simplest of surgical operations going awry; all of it mushrooming within a day into Keny fighting for his life? Was it the unexpectedness of finding someone we love fighting for his life when a moment before, we thought he was safe and getting care? Was there anything we could have done to help prevent Keny’s death?
Sadly, in the end we were all left to sob. Whenever the sorrow, pain and the damn injustice of the thing becomes too much to bear, those who loved Keny—those of us in the noisy front row of mourners— find we must release an eruption of uncontainable sobs. I can’t help myself. That’s just how it works. Anytime, anywhere, the sobs just flow, as if they are the physical manifestation of this grief that inhabits me and cannot be held back. Like this fellow’s obvious pain here on the subway at 7:55AM on Wednesday morning.
Such a sorrowful character. Wonder if he’s getting off at Porter Square?
Neither of us moves as the car empties further. Looking straight into the glass, I stare directly at myself, no longer pretending to stare at a stranger. No longer pretending to be a curiosity observed on a train. Looking across, at the reflection in the window, I see myself in a blue Red Sox cap taking deep breaths while wiping away the tracks of tears that ran beneath my eyes.
So hard to believe. No more Keny. It seems as if he’s been stolen from us. Death is not usually this perverse or insistent; so that only someone in his mid-40’s, someone who was both brilliant of mind and vibrant of life force, would prove acceptable. Either way, Keny fought the good fight; struggled to stay alive for his wife and son, but the poison in his body had already done its worst. And so I find myself the next day sobbing on subway trains. On elevators. In the supermarket…
It was so unfair, so heartrending. So sad…! There is no more Keny. No more blustery personality or charming smile. No more high-energy activity or comfortable presence. No more Kenyatta Braithwaite. So proud to have him as a respectful and loving son. So sad to lose him so young.
“It’s so sad!” I repeat as I wipe away tears from this latest wave of sobbing.
How else can one react? Fate came in and snatched away Kenyatta Braithwaite from the embrace of his friends and family. There was no warning. There was no way to fight this decision. No one to complain to! What choices were we given?
And now, what else can we do?
Except say goodbye…and sob.
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Keny’s wake is to be held at the McDonald Keohane Funeral Home – 809 Main St. South Weymouth, MA (across the street from South Shore Hospital), Monday, April 6th, 3pm-7pm. Funeral to be held Tuesday, April 7, at St. Francis Xavier Parish – 234 Pleasant St. South Weymouth, MA, 9:30am.