Thomas Patrick Kelly II

Thomas Patrick Kelly II, my father, died on Sunday, March 23rd 2025 at the age of 57. The breadth of his love, the vibrancy of his relationships, the corrosive nature of his grief, all make up strands in the tapestry of his life’s story. His truth. Just as we are born exposed and vulnerable, death has a way of leaving the narrative of our lives open to interpretation and reformation, but there is value in remembering the whole of a person’s life—their flaws, their dreams, and their gifts.

Tom and his two older brothers—Tim and Mike—were born in Philadelphia. Their mother, Kathleen, left an abusive marriage to be with Tom’s father, Gene, and the whole Kelly family moved to the southwest United States together. Joking that he grew up on Tatooine, Tom often did not have access to good healthcare as a child, especially when he struggled with kidney stones at the age of five. His dance with pain, medications, and poor health began too early; he would spend the rest of his life trying to find a balance that never held steady. If there was anything he wanted consistently across his years, it was to feel taken care of by those around him. As he grew, this need to be cared for took root and his struggles with pain management led to conflicts that ended relationships and left him always trying to catch up.

Tom was an intensely funny and creative person. He was never without a Walkman, sketched constantly, obsessed over models of spaceships and characters. Above all else, he liked to teach what he knew, showing and sharing things he'd found: movies, art, music, pop culture. He was an explorer in this world, and his joy was for everyone. He was especially drawn to the experiences he could create with tabletop roleplaying games. He would create soundtracks for his games on cassette, curating each adventure for his players with detailed maps and fantastic characters. Tom invited stories to impact him. He never just skimmed the surface of a movie or a book. He dove in, and he thought deeply about how a story intersected and fit into his own view of the world and his place in it. He allowed himself to be moved. When art was shared with him, Tom would cherish it, even if it wasn't fully his jam, because it came as a gift from someone he loved.

My father died on a Sunday, but he died many times before. He died when one of his great loves, Maya, passed away in the prime of youth. He died when his parents, Kathleen and Gene, died from cancer at the end of their long lives. He died when his fiancee, Serena, succumbed to a multitude of medical problems. He died when he didn’t want to create anymore. He died when he gave up on living a life worth living. He died when the cancer took his lucidity, leaving him half-conscious in his hospice room. And he died for the last time when his heart stopped beating.

But he also lived. He burned so brightly that his light was never stamped out. He was both a tortured man and a bubbly fun-loving man—a dichotomy that allowed him to make friends with anyone. Tom’s charm, acute sense of style, and disarming silliness made him fun to be around. He met people where they were with warm and thoughtful conversations and a deep emotional capacity to listen, inspiring people to engage and be a part of the show. He was a light, and he wanted so much to make others feel good. He would jump at the chance to contort himself to any degree to get a laugh. Tom would use ordinary objects to show off the wacky absurdity inherent in everyday life; nothing was mundane, and he would remind us. He wanted to know everything you loved so he could understand YOU, and he wanted to share everything he loved so that everyone could experience the wonders he found. He remembered everything you liked and sent you messages every time he came across something related to your interests.

He was generous to a fault—occasionally giving away things he needed to survive. No matter how bad things were for him, he always genuinely wanted the people he loved to be thriving, and it gave him great joy and delight when they did. He never asked for anything in return.

Those of us who loved him, however, spent decades begging him to take one step toward a life that reflected his needs. He couldn't. Or, at least, he wouldn't. And trapped under the weight of his own pain, he couldn't hear the pain that pushed his loved ones to try to help him. But even as he was enveloped in that darkness, he tried to bring light to others in whatever ways he could. He continued sending his little missives—messages with music, media, little pop culture facts—all in lieu of admitting how bad things were in his own life. Staying connected at a distance that let him keep surviving…until his time ran out.

In the telling of this limited biography of Thomas Patrick Kelly II, I had the support of those closest to him. Knowing that I am not alone in remembering allows me to keep that memory and celebrate his truth as I understood it. I miss him more than I knew I could miss someone. I was his only child; we had so much in common and shared a joy for music, art, and storytelling. He introduced me to my very first tabletop roleplaying game—which became a passion and career of mine—instilling in me an innate understanding of the role storytelling plays in how we live a full life. Thanks to him, I learned that stories allow us to feel new heartbreak, dream more dreams, and heal more wounds than any one lifetime could allow. My father lived many lives and died many deaths. We should all be so lucky.

With Love,

Marissa Kelly