At Some Point You Realize You're Always Just Waiting To Go Home

for Poppy.

Just over a week ago, I was sitting in Austin across from a friend who feels like a sister, catching up on how our lives have diverged since the last time we saw each other in a Target parking lot in 2020. I told her I was leaving, and she told me she was thinking about it. We both left and found ourselves serendipitously in Austin again simultaneously.

While we caught up, we marveled at how similar our lives have been, how excited we were about what was next for us, and how glad we were to be sitting right where we were, right at that moment.

And then, as she was supposed to leave, my phone rang.

My husband was on the end of the line and said nothing save for muddled wimpers and sniffs at first.

If you’ve ever gotten the call, you know what comes next. You know at this point in the story that someone is dead, someone beloved, someone irreplaceable. Your heart dropped into your stomach, and you felt a tinge of it again. For that, I am sorry. I know now that it’s the worst feeling in the world, that moment you realize you’ve lost someone when the person on the other line hasn’t gotten their feet under them enough to tell you who. How could they? They’ve just gotten the same call from someone closer to the person who has gone.

Soon enough, I knew that my grandfather-in-law was gone.

Ray Kilby, or to all of us Poppy, wasn’t just a man; locally, he was somewhat of a myth. Everyone in our county knew him. In the small community where we grew up, in Millers Creek, Poppy might as well have been the mayor.

Tucker and I met when we were 15, but our grandparents had grown up together as neighbors during a time without electricity, walking lanterns to each other’s houses. I spent my summers with my grandmother canning green beans that her friend brought over, only to learn later that the green bean man was Poppy.

When I was 9, I lost my grandfather, knocking my grandparent count down to one. It was a loss I feel to this day, though I don’t have many of my own memories about Winfred, my grandfather. Not only had I lost my grandfather, but I also lost the innocence of a child who had never known death. When my mom received the call, she screamed so loudly at me to come inside that I crashed my bike. I could hear it in her voice. I knew something was wrong. I feel a deep tenderness for that girl with bloodied knees, learning that the world as she knew it wasn’t real. In many ways, my childhood ended that day.

When I got to know Tucker’s Granny and Poppy for the first time, I felt at home in a way I hadn’t felt since I was 9. It was Christmas, and Tucker and I were well into our relationship. They welcomed me into their home, and a stocking hung on their fireplace with my name sewn on it. There were gifts for me under the tree. A tall, force of a man started telling me stories about my family members who I’d never known. I don’t remember the account from that first Christmas all that well, but I do remember feeling understood. At that age, I felt like an imposter in all areas of my life, and Ray Kilby reminded me that evening that we were from the same holler, grown in the same dirt. That was the best Christmas I’d ever had.

A world without him feels like an impossibility.

When I was sitting across from my friend in Austin after just hearing the news, all I could say was that he was so good. He was where all the best parts of each of us came from.

I got the privilege and joy of knowing Poppy for half my life.

He taught me many things, but in his passing, the thing that reverberates furthest is how he cared for his community. He knew how to take care of the people in his life and welcomed everyone into his circle. If you needed anything, you weren’t afraid to ask Ray Kilby. He loved deeply, he cared just as much, and above all, he always showed up to help. He basked in the community he built, calling his friends weekly, if not daily, seeing those he cared about as often as possible. If you were ever his friend, you were always his friend. He loved his garden, loved the gift of nature, and took walks daily.

He loved his family dearly, and was quick to count me among them.

As I go into the cold dark months, I will remember this. I will cling to it. This is the way to live well.

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