We Forget Our Own Deaths All the Time
A mother of a deceased son reflects on the death of Kobe Byrant
I don’t want to write about Kobe Bryant. I don’t want to write about Gianna Bryant. I don’t want to write about John, Keri, or Alyssa Altobelli. Not Sarah and Payton Chester. Not Christina Mauser. And not Ara Zobayan either. On Sunday morning, I was sitting on the couch and saw the first alert on my phone. I delivered the news out loud to my husband. I kept thinking, but I didn’t know this 90 seconds ago; I want to go back there. These moments take us up to an edge — a choose-your-adventure pause where you realize a line has just been drawn. And collectively a nation, a planet is going to sit still and bow their heads.
I have a picture of myself at about three years old sitting in a helicopter. My dad flew them in the Marines and had taken a job in Atlanta flying for a traffic reporter. He took me and my mom up for an afternoon ride. What an absurd thing to do. What a miracle that it was a safe flight. But was it any more absurd than handing me pretzels to snack on? Any more absurd than being born to begin with? There a million things we do every day that are ludicrous and incongruent with our lives actually continuing. Get in a car, walk across the street, swim in a pool. Sometimes when I’m home by myself I think, I could choke and die alone. But we…
