Engaged: Kylah’s Story

If, at any point before April of this year, you happened to ask me how I thought I would get engaged, in a graveyard wouldn’t have made the list. Let alone in a graveyard, with a headstone with my name on it, while a mourning woman took our photos. But I suppose that’s the beauty of life: sometimes it just doesn’t go quite how you expect it to. 

The day started normal enough: coffee, eggs (prepared with an extra bit of panache, but not enough to draw conclusions), and a 7AM meeting with the EMEA team. 

When the meeting finished, Ethan so kindly reminded me that I needed to pack for our weekend away. He gave me a packing list, but not a hint as to where we were going. You may think, at this point, that I should have been suspicious, but despite my love of meticulous list-building I somehow always seem to find a way to forget the essentials when packing. It’s an act of fiscal preservation to ensure I’m not left coat-less, again

After packing, he gave me a small card with a note on it. I’ll spare you the riddle, but the takeaway is I was certain we were off to find a speedboat when we were, in fact, running late for the ferry. Ethan whisked us away, dogs and all, in the nick of time — we pulled up just as the ferry was boarding, destination: Vashon Island. 

I haven’t spent much time on Vashon, if I’m being honest. It’s no fault of the island, save for the fact that it’s perhaps a bit less flashy than its neighbors up north (the San Juans). But with my limited research, I had known enough to inform Ethan repeatedly of a single place I hoped to visit: a llama farm. 

We pulled into the little house nestled in the trees, and I inhaled that glorious scent of farm animals. A cheerful woman greeted us, introducing herself as Kelly. She welcomed us into the yard, sharing that they didn’t run many tours these days, on account of the llamas age. There used to be 14 of them, she said, but all that was left was three. Two just old enough to be grumpy, and one completely blind. 

They say proposals should reflect the person and, suffice to say, Ethan was off to an incredible start. 

After standing quietly in the field with the llamas for a while — they don’t like to be pet, brushed, chased, or otherwise acknowledged, we were told — we were off to our next stop. We said our goodbyes, pulled out into the road and… was that a herd of baby goats? The car screeched to a stop. We pulled into the driveway of the random house, and I craned out the window for a closer look. Come in, beckoned a middle aged woman dressed in overalls. She waved as if she had been impatiently waiting for our arrival, and who were we to disagree? 

Inside the barn, I caught a glimpse of some alternative-universe future I hope I have the chance to live. A herd of rescue dogs played at our feet, one leaping at us relentlessly. “Sorry about him,” the woman explained, “he came from a home in Seattle that only taught him one trick: hug. It’s the only thing he wants when he’s excited.” She turned to the dog, offering her outstretched arms, into which he threw himself in a full hug. We met the rescue horses, one from a rodeo and the other a petting zoo. We met the male goats: a full pen of braying, stocky little dwarves. And finally, with childish glee, I was introduced to the baby goats. They were 3 weeks old, and just a little bigger than a house cat. The woman placed one in my arms — Valentine, named for the small heart shape on the fur of his forehead. Like any 3 week old baby, in minutes he began to drift into sleep, his head falling gently against my chest. 

I looked at Ethan, overcome with joy and delight, and he smiled the smile of someone who knows they’ve had a hand in making magic — true magic — come to life. “You didn’t plan this?” I asked, eyebrow raised. He looked surprised. “This one’s all God,” he said, pointing innocently at the sky. “I didn’t plan any of this.” 

And eventually we really did need to go, to catch up with our other plans. We had a full day ahead of us. We were finally on the road again, chasing the next activity when… was that an estate sale sign? Well we really should stop, we agreed. Just for a look. A quick look. 

It was an old house, with a driveway that would make anyone scared to age, filled with all sorts of… well, some people would say treasures. I do wonder, sometimes, about the adults who spend their lives collecting dolls… but that’s beside the point. We found a rusting mailbox to take as a souvenir and now we were really off. 

But we were rather hungry. 30 minutes later, bellies full of halfway decent Mexican food, we were on our way. We pulled up to the Seattle ferry at the top of the island just as it was beginning to board. “Wow, someone up there is really on our side today,” I said, smiling broadly. Could this be the day…? I began to wonder. And then the ferry turned west. For those of you less familiar with PNW geography, allow me to clarify: West was decidedly NOT the direction of the Seattle ferry. It was, in fact, the direction of any number of other ferry terminals, some as many as a few hours away from Seattle. 

“Oh shit,” said Ethan. Thankfully for Ethan’s poor heart, we realized shortly that the ferry we had mistakenly boarded was just a short journey to the nearby terminal of Southworth. In fact, the ferry schedule told me, we would maybe just make it on the next ferry leaving to Seattle. When we arrived at the terminal, Ethan stopped the ferry worker to ask where we should go for the Seattle ferry. “What?” She asked, in that tone of voice that lets you know you may be the stupidest person she’s met today. “The ferry to Seattle?” Ethan asked again. “You’re on it,” she said, pointing to the line of cars waiting to board. 

And so we took a nap. Well, Ethan took a nap, while I researched ferry schedules and learned that our little adventure would deliver us to Seattle a full hour ahead of schedule than if we had caught the ferry from our original starting point. Maybe someone up there is on our side, I thought again. 

Once we were in Seattle, I could feel Ethan begin to get itchy. It’s the kind of thing that you’d never notice without spending countless hours around a person, noticing those small ticks they pick up when they’re nervous or hungry or both. We played Bar Mitzvah music, aka the greatest hits of the mid-to-late 2000s, including everything from Linkin Park to Pitbull. It’s a staple for us, and probably the rest of you that either spent your hard-earned allowance on iTunes credits or risking the safety of your family desktop on LimeWire downloads. Either way, we filled our car with full-throated nostalgia until we arrived at Magnuson Park. 

Magnuson is a special place for us. It’s where, a long, long time ago, Ethan told me that I was “the blueprint of the person he was supposed to be with”. With time, it also became the place where I gave him my promise ring, a wish to spend my life with him. 

It’s also a special place for most of the student body of the University of Washington, who spend sunny days on the shores of its beaches, smoking weed and otherwise enjoying the unique joys of the PNW outdoors. It was with this company that we ventured into the park, the dogs pulling at their leashes as they recognized the smells of thousands of Seattle’s finest (dogs). 

We took a peek at our special beach spot (occupied), and settled for a visit to the dog park. As the three dogs splashed and played, Ethan recapped all that had transpired since our first visits to the park. “It’s been quite an adventure,” he concluded, misty eyed. He held my gaze for a long minute, considering we were on a bench in the middle of a crowded dog park, and at risk of being humped or splashed at any moment. “I love you,” I said sincerely, as a wet-faced retriever dropped a damp tennis ball in my lap. 

We laughed and packed up the dogs. A little trip down memory lane, I thought, wondering what the next stop would be. “Let’s just stop at our spot,” Ethan said, eyeing the smoking kids. We paused at the beach, booming house music filling the air. “Kylah, it’s been such an incredible journey with you,” he began, pulling a box from his pocket. “I just want to keep having adventures with you forever. Would you…” I couldn’t take it. The house music was pulsing in my head, the stares of our most-definitely high audience pulling me from any special magic lingering on the edges of the plumes of pot smoke. “Don’t propose to me!!” I yelled, covering my eyes. A pause. I opened them. With a flourish, Ethan opened the box to reveal a ring pop. I was overcome with an eye roll. “Screw you!!” I yelled, running away with a laugh. 

I put it on on our walk back to the car. Blue raspberry. Excellent selection, though the carats of the ring were disappearing by the minute. 

As we pulled away from Magnuson and began to drive towards our old neighborhood — Magnolia — I wondered again if this was the day I would get engaged. The ring-pop proposal seemed to point towards yes — there was no way that he was leaving me with that — but the sun was beginning to dip towards the horizon and the adventure ahead appeared to have no end.

Soon we were pulling into the parking lot of Discovery Park, the huge stretch of open land just north of downtown Seattle. We wandered down the familiar path along the water, remembering the other conversations and moments that had brought us to this place. And then we were there: the small stretch of beach under the sweeping branches of an old tree. The place where we once sat and Ethan asked me what I wanted out of my relationship, long before we ever had the idea of falling in love. We sat on the same log and Ethan held my hands between us, looking into my eyes with that scalawag smile and asked, “so, what are you looking for in your relationship?”

You, my heart answered as I searched for words. “Challenge,” I said first. “The opportunity to grow, and to be noticed for my hard-won growth. Someone with the same fire in their belly to make the most of their short life, someone reaching for the hard stuff. Someone with the humility to hear me when I ask them to bend for me, but the resilience to never break. Someone with strongly held values, especially those of love, creativity, grace, and curiosity. Someone who notices things. Who looks at the world with wonder, including me. Someone who wants to build a relationship that is the launch pad for an exceptional life.” My mind was a montage of memories of us, the kind that look like light on water: both dazzling and fleeting. As I rifled through the past, I saw our brokenness too, and the way we held those moments tenderly between us. “Grace,” I said again. “Relentless hope.”

Ethan agreed with me, adding the qualities I’d forgotten: adventure, delight, openness, bravery, boldness. He spoke with his universe eyes locked on mine, and I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or to cry.

“One more thing,” he said when he was finished, pulling me up off the log. He walked towards the water and stopped a few feet from the reach of the gentle waves. “Can we just say thank you?” He asked.

In some moments, the ones where you are faced with a landscape or feeling or experience bigger than you find yourself able to hold, I find it helpful to throw your arms open wide and scream into the wind a full-throated, THANK YOU! To God, I think, and also all the other forces that combine to make these moments possible: the water of the ocean, the pull of the tides, the seagulls in the air.

This was one of those moments.

We held hands, like performers preparing to bow at the end of a show, taking a deep breath before releasing our gratitude into the air. Thank you, thank you. I could feel it in my bones, in my sense of presence. The response was all around me, voiceless yet undeniable. Yes, it said.

We walked back to the car, quickly now that the sun had turned a golden orange. There was, it would seem, at least one more destination.

Minutes later, we arrived. It was Mount Pleasant Cemetery, the small cemetery just a block away from the office where we’d met. It may seem an odd destination, but it had long since become something much bigger to us than a graveyard. It was a place we visited to observe the passage of time, to wonder about life, death, and love. It was where we processed Ethan’s breakups together, and then mine. It was where we walked on our short coffee breaks for years as mere friends, where, once, we wondered aloud if we were soul mates, though perhaps just of the friend variety.

This was where you would propose, I realized immediately. It had to be here.

We walked aimlessly through the headstones, the sun casting long shadows across the grass. We talked about those early conversations, when there was so much to make sense of and so little sense between us.

As we wandered, I noticed a woman kneeling in front of a grave a long distance away, and whispered to Ethan, “can we give her some space?” What a strange thing this was, to be so full of youth and hope, our audience comprised only of the dead.

We continued to wander until, suddenly, a headstone caught my eye: “Senior consultant. Amateur snowboarder. Not even that funny. 1995-2020”. It was thin and clearly homemade, but painted to match the worn colors of the stones around us. It was also a joke Ethan and I had made a long time ago: funny headstone inscriptions. There was a whole path of them, leading me ahead.

“Please don’t pee on me.” “Had some friends but not that many.”

Last along the path: “Kylah and Ethan”.

He stopped then, pulling a handmade booklet from his jacket pocket. “Will you spend the rest of your life with me?” He began.

It was beautiful, though my brain turned into something fuzzy and bright shortly after he started to speak. And then there was a ticking sensation at the back of leg. Or, I should say, it began at the back of my leg and then began to slowly move up until it paused just below my butt.

Without warning, I screamed, “there’s a spider in my ass!”

And Ethan burst out laughing. “Help me!” I cried, alternately smacking my butt and shaking my skirt. It was gone shortly after the smacking began, but as I came back to Ethan I found air in my lungs.

“Sorry about that,” I said, and we resumed.

“Will you marry me?” Ethan concluded, taking a knee (as one does) and revealing a ring from his pocket. The tears were unexpected, and I covered my face before finding the word waiting in my throat: yes. “Yes,” I said, kneeling to bring myself close enough to throw my arms around him.

The mourning woman stepped out from behind the grave then, revealing herself to be my dear friend Skye, camera in hand.

And so I was awarded yet another title in the story of us: coworker, friend, girlfriend, fiance. It wasn’t the proposal I would’ve imagined. It was weirder, funnier, more chaotic, and magical than anything I could dream up. That’s what we’re signing up for, I suppose: moments of intention interwoven with heaping servings of this uncontrollable life. I hope we find a way to make it just a fraction as beautiful.