Kon Hawk was my friend, many years ago when we were in high school together. I graduated in 1990, he graduated my freshman year. We were in French together, and in Drama together, and we both juggled — which is how we began our friendship. I’ve often wondered what became of him. I lost touch with almost everyone from high school immediately after graduation. I wasn’t exactly popular.

Recently I put his name into Google. I figured it was a unique name, unlikely that anyone else would have it.

There was only one hit. And it hit me like a blow. What I found was a song…written in memoriam.

Kon was stabbed to death in 1994 while working the night shift at a convenience store by some guys making a beer run. Kon was killed for a few cases of cheap beer.

What follows is an essay written about the incident by his friend and roommate at the time. It is quite beautiful and I am reposting it here with permission.

Childhood’s End

written by Brian Abernethy

We had run through the night with speed crashing through our veins. We had beaten each other bloody out of boredom. We had lived together in squalor and filth, and called it good., because we had each other. We had cried in each other’s arms, and our laughter made the earth tremble on the night we flung ourselves at the sky. His name was Kon, his eyes were frozen fire, and he taught me to be wise.

His wild red hair jittered all around his head with barely-contained electric frenzy. His smile could tear through any trouble, fighting back the darkness without and within. His clothes were all torn, his boots well ventilated. He seemed shabby and mad, until he looked you in the eye, and made you his own. My mother thought he was a dirty hoodlum. She never saw Kon’s eyes. My father thought he was an immigrant leprechaun. He never felt Kon’s eyes. My sister thought he was the Devil’s own nephew. They never really saw him, only judged, stereotyped, and shunned. I knew him to be good, kind gentle, noble, wise, a hero made flesh. I knew his eyes.

He was Yorick to my Hamlet, the man of infinite jest to my son of questionable sanity. Upon his strong back he bore my troubles a thousand times. He had raised me since I was nineteen, both brother and father. He taught me to question, to reason, to fight, to love. He showed me how to open doors in the walls we place around ourselves, so that I could reach through to touch and be touched. He taught me to laugh when the tears came, to shout defiance at defeat, to sing in the darkness. He told me that I was his rock, the strong foundation he could always count on. I would have followed him through fire. He would have done the same for me.
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