Ky'Ree Taylor - June 8, 2001 - September 15, 2025

Dear, Son

It’s been three weeks since your passing, and - predictably - no day since has felt "normal."

Oddly enough, not getting a "Dad, you got $20" text has been the most unsettling part. It’s a near-constant reminder that you’re no longer here, and some days that realization sends me spiraling.

I know these feelings will pass, but for now, sometimes, it’s a lot to bear.

A week or so ago, my wife made a joke about a thought she had.

She was hesitant to share it - she didn’t want it to sound like she was making light of the situation - but it went a little something like this:

She imagined my dad sitting on a hill in heaven, looking out at the horizon, and seeing you walk over.

As you get within shouting distance, he says, in his very Robert Brown tone, "Boy, what you doing here???"

Needless to say, I had a good laugh at the thought...

I hope you’ve found my dad - your grandfather - and that you’re both reconnecting and keeping each other company.

And I hope to see you two again one day.

Until then,

With love, Dad.

We'll meet again

Surviving family members include his children - KaVari, Paisley, Nazyiah, and Kaysen - and his fiancée, TaKila Jones;

his mother, Kizzy McDuffie, and her husband, Antonio McDuffie; his brother, Torry Dubose, and his sister, Amani Coefield;

and me - his dad, Kevin - my wife, Lydia Taylor, and his two brothers, Avery and Andrew.

Other surviving family members include his mother-in-law, Pamela Jones; his grandmothers, Jean Taylor and Debra Ellerbe; his grandfather, Nathaniel; his two aunts, Lakeytha Ellerbe and Natashia Morgan; his uncles, Gregory Taylor, Melvin Morgan, and John Galbreath; and a host of great-aunts, great-uncles, cousins, and other relatives.

- October 6, 2025

Until then

Ky'Ree staring out the window of the car

Ky'Ree wearing daddy's vest at grandma's house

Ky'Ree playing in the pool at home in Atlanta

Ky'Ree with me, Avery, and Lydia at Christmas

With love, Dad

You had grown into your hands,
strong hands.
Hands that held and protected.

And then the world... shifted.
One day you were here,
and the next,
it felt like the air got thin.
Like I was breathing through loss.

Now, more than ever, I love you from a distance.
Not in hugs,
not in the sound of your footsteps coming through the door,
but in the quiet moments.
The ones that sneak up,
where your name still fills the room.

Your brothers,
they carry you in their own ways.
One walks with your rhythm.
That same confidence.
That I know who I am kind of walk.
The other?
He laughs like he’s trying
to make sure your joy never leaves this earth.
And me,
I see you in both of them.
Sometimes in the curve of a smile.
Sometimes in the silence after.

And your kids...
Two girls, two boys,
your whole heart multiplied.
Each of them holding something that’s unmistakably you.
A look.
A laugh.
That spark in the eyes that says,
"I’ve got work to do in this world."
They don’t even know yet
how much of you lives in them.
But I do.
And I thank God for that.

There were dreams, son.
Milestones, simple things,
talks we never finished.
Grief keeps those things alive.
It tricks you into thinking
you can still step into them if you close your eyes long enough.

But I see you,
in sunlight warming brown skin,
in the smell of rain,
in the rhythm of our laughter
when we forget for a second
how much it hurts.
Love doesn’t stop.

It just learns new ways to reach across.
So when I speak your name,
when I tell your brothers I’m proud of them,
when I hold your children close
and see your face flash through theirs,
know that it’s still for you too.

With love, Dad.