April 19, 2021
Yesterday would have been my cousin Kole’s 23rd birthday.
If only he had made it to his day.
If only he had made it to his 21st to have a drink.
Or his 18th to leave home.
Or his 16th to drive a car.
Or even his 15th, because he was so close.
We lost Kole just over two months before his 15th birthday, and the pain of that will never fully subside. But it gets softer with time. It fades into the noise of daily existence without ever being truly gone. Like the sound of the neighbor’s bell I hear outside my window throughout the day but have gotten used to. It’s always there, but at times I hear it more or hear it less.
While I carry the loss of Kole with me always, I carry even more of the love he brought into the world. Into our family’s world.
He was a kid of simple pleasures. He loved beef jerky and Oreo pie, sci-fi movies and cross country. He loved his friends more than just about anything. He was content to play Xbox on a hot afternoon or go to the community gym and pick up a game of basketball with the boys.
He was happy with very little. I sometimes wish I had more of his nature within myself. I smiled when one of his close friends told me that I seemed like the boy version of Kole—that we had similar hearts and personalities. I was honored, and I’ve never forgotten the compliment all these years later.
A while back, I bought a skateboard. A longboard. I got the idea from a friend who said she’d been riding around and really enjoying the hobby. One day, probably fed up with the self-perceived normalcy of my daily life, I did a quick bit of research, hopped on Amazon, and bought a board.
The listing said it was used, but when it arrived, it was spotless. I was thrilled to break it in yet nervous to scuff it up. But as a new skater, I didn’t have to worry about beating it up—I was too timid for that to happen. I had to take it slow.
I started by riding it across the smooth floor of my second-story apartment. The wheels absolutely glided. I felt like I was floating. No wonder people love this, I thought. I practiced getting on and off within the comfort of my home. I got a feel for how it shifted with my weight, and started testing out various foot placements to see what felt most stable.
When I finally started taking the board out in my neighborhood, I rode on the sidewalk. I scooted along very slowly, enjoying the sunshine and coastal breeze while trying to stay calm as I rolled along.
I remember picking up speed once as I hit a block that went slightly downhill. Nerves heightened, and I jumped off. I wasn’t ready for the speed. But what I did notice was how smooth the ride felt for those first few seconds of downhill cruising.
Kole’s birthday isn’t something I always set aside to reflect on, honestly. I usually take the anniversary of his death for that instead. I carve out the day, whenever possible, to feel everything I need to feel. I make space for myself. I remember him. I let myself be full to the brim of whatever I need to be—sadness, affection, longing, nostalgia, joy, and sometimes a mix of it all.
Because here’s the truth—when I take a pause, it all rises to the surface. I experience those sensations that the busyness of life is so good at pushing down. It can be overwhelming. It can be freeing. It’s a practice I believe is necessary to grow, heal, and change. The act of slowing down allows me space to acknowledge what’s been harbored in the deepest parts of myself. And those deepest parts do not shy away from offering me a full view at what’s buried there. It’s like my soul can sense when the slowness sets in, and it springs my feelings on me all at once.
When I’m cruising through my days, I don’t acutely consider Kole’s life or death. It’s the halting moments that bring my mind to him. The moments of stopping, resting, and going slow.
Moving fast is smooth.
Slowing down allows me to feel the bumps.
This is how riding my longboard goes. With speed comes the smoothness. I don’t feel the cracks in the pavement or the little rocks under the wheels so much. But going slow, taking my time—I feel it all. It’s good for learning, but in many ways, it’s not as easy as going faster. Momentum helps to roll over uneven sidewalks. But slow pedaling gives me a feel for the board’s way of moving. I need to be able to do both. Go fast, slow down. Start slow, speed up. The moments of cruising, the jolts from the bumpy ground beneath—it’s all a part of the process. It’s a part of the ride.
The cycles of grief, the joys of life, and the moments of remembering time gone by—it’s life. It’s all part of it. I can’t expect to only cruise, rolling by at a faster pace in an effort to miss the bumps. But I also can’t go slow forever, afraid to pick up speed. My longboard under my feet, learning as I go, I’ll remember this, that it’s all a part of the divinely beautiful life I have.
Longboarding is a simple pleasure. It’s a way to hang with friends in the sun and listen to the sound of the wind rush by. I’m still learning, and I’m okay with that. There’s no pressure to get it right because it’s a humble hobby that reminds me to enjoy myself. And in this, I smile at the thought of Kole on the basketball court or playing video games in his upstairs bedroom. It’s simple. He was living, and he was enjoying it. I think I’ll take a moment to enjoy it all, too.
What more profound, yet ordinary gift is there but the simple act of living, day in and day out? Choosing to be happy with very little leads me to one delightful conclusion: I have worlds more than I could see in the blur of fast-paced living, and it’s enough to make me wonder if I’m not more like Kole than I realized.
Alexa Babin 
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