A Hymn to Kelly

Most times, I like to incorporate pictures into the stories I produce. Not this one. Memories, real and imagined, will suffice. Pictures are remarkable in their ability to capture a moment and occasionally more. But, how do they stack up against the actions of another person that can be recalled at will, with no need for the physical? Actions of others that influenced a lifetime. Can you sum the entirety of these into a thousand words? Of course not.  Besides, what is better than a memory? With a picture there is little wiggle room: What you see is what you get.  A memory, on the other hand, can be so, simply by virtue of your choosing to believe. I write tonight from an accumulation of memories, taking the sum of the entirety and attempting to capture it as but a single thought. I am writing tonight because I am creating a memory I never lived.

When I am alone, particularly on purposed travel, I have lot of time to myself. I know that the last sentence doubles down on the context of solitary, but I did so with intention. Is it proper? Not likely, but it does provide an emphasis on the depth to which my thinking will dive. On this occasion I was reflecting on Willie B, my Pawpaw, and while driving the name Kelly came from a distance.

For me, Kelly is a good name and one I immediately associate it with the Irish. As with most things Irish related, that is a positive thing. The name Kelly seems wholesome and hearty; sturdy yet understanding; kind and loving. I have no doubt that there have been many Kelly’s. Fathers, brothers and sons; Mothers, sisters and daughters. I have known very few Kelly’s in my time, but none have disappointed. Oddly enough I write here tonight with thoughts of Kelly as that son, that brother, that father and that grandfather. Yet, the first Kelly that usually comes to mind is a very sweet and beautiful one. A daughter and a sister. A mother to one day be.  Go figure.

I cannot play, sing or dance and, it is frustrating to have heard the music I have, to love it as I do, and to not understand it at all, So, this is not a hymn in the traditional sense. Instead, it is a celebration of another; memories of which I have none. It is a celebration of one via the collective celebration of many, none of which are named Kelly. Besides, it is also a good title.

So, what is in a name? Nothing really. Each is but a string of letters organized in sequence. Many are used over and over. Many still, hardly at all. Some will give you pause and yet others will make you wonder. However, amidst all of the combinations, some will stand alone even though there may be many others that share the same. For you see, it is not the name itself that makes the association but instead the individual that responds to the call. Such is probably the case with the Kelly I currently have in mind.

Though our paths never crossed, I have walked on one that he helped build. I have observed a smile that he helped create and sensed the tears from written memories that I have read.  So, he exists in my mind as a memory never lived. He exists now only as an aggregate of my thoughts of others, brought to life by my own imagination, spurred by another, but becoming real as  I  now choose to turn it into a memory within these words. In that sense, he will become a memory that I will believe even as much as those that I have lived because, not only do I think him to be so, but because I want him to be so as well.

I imagine Kelly to be like an Abo, a Mrs. Gray or a Brother Jagger. Maybe a Ms. Lucy, a Ms.  Betty or an Alice Gray. A John D. perhaps or a Richard even. A Willie B. or Olga and most certainly a Kathleen. A Harris, a Dr. Godsey, a Harry Burke or a Dicky Fitz. Each of these names, and there are many more, are distinguished by their influence upon me and by the singular nature of what my common addressing of each evokes. There are so many others but there is only one of each. Maybe the man I imagine wasn’t like any of these, but I know too well he would have shared their better qualities. I have seen the smiles through the tears of one I know to be true; a common characteristic imparted by those that have provided us something through nothing more than their once being. That is confirmation in itself.

Each of these names provide singular memories. Some from only the briefest of instances , outsiders as such, and others as family; the time spent with the latter being more abundant and thus more shaping. I guess in a way, those that played larger roles in my life, the ones that had the advantage of time spent, serve as the narrative. Those with lesser time, but not necessarily lesser roles, are the punctuation.

As we go about our lives we meet strangers anew. The better among them become anything but, altering our paths and thus our journey through life from that point on. I never met Kelly, but he has altered my life for the better. He is now punctuation in my life’s narrative and in its own way, that tells me all I need to know about the man. The fondest memory I will have of the man is the one I felt compelled to complete here tonight.  In and of itself, that is a satisfying thing. Memories, requiring a living of, be damned. I will  now happily place this among my fondest.