He had a present for me. My dad was in his late 70s, and his diagnosis of Alzheimer’s disease started to make sense: familiar anecdotes grew longer even as they also lost details or merged with other anecdotes.

He had a present for me, and he had wrapped it in plain brown paper. My dad was one of those men who when he wanted to tell you something important or give you something, he stood up to do so. I do not know where this touch of formality came from, whether it was a trace of a whiff of a bygone era, something that the top-hatted men one saw depicted in the Victorian elocution primers with which my dad grew up in his childhood home do, or if it is merely a trait shared by men with the last name of “Aldrich.” My grandfather did it, my dad did it, and I tend to stand when I have to tell you something I have decided is important to tell you, too.

He retrieved the package from beside his chair and stood. “I think you should have this,” and he paused. It was an Alzheimer’s pause coupled with some father-son emotions; he couldn’t describe what the package was or how it was meaningful. “This is important.”

My parents and sister lived on Cape Cod. When I returned to New York, I opened the package: It was a large studio photo of my baby sister and me that was taken when she was still an infant; thus, at some time in the fall of 1971. It was newly framed and under glass, though. In the photo I am three, or about to be. I’d seen the photo many times, as it must have been sent around in a variety of sizes to all the cousins and grandparents back in the Christmas season of 1971. I actually had a copy on my Instagram account even when my dad made a gift out of it for me. I’d never seen it framed or so large.

He couldn’t wrap words around why it would be important to me; he just wrapped it in paper and made a gift of it. It sits in a nook on my wall, even today, and it holds a double meaning: it represents my childhood, as this photo always has done, but this particular copy is a personal gift from my father in his last decade, when what was important was only family. “I think you should have this.”

William Robert “Bob” Aldrich died of Covid-19 on May 10, 2020. He was 84.

Mary and I met by phone after she lost her husband Mike and I lost my brother Johnny both from Covid. New York was one of the worst affected states for Coronavirus at the start of the pandemic that tragically impacted Mike and Johnny. Horrific deaths during horrific times. We were shocked from such sudden and unexpected deaths of our loved ones. We wonder if we will ever really heal but we are trying our best with our grieving process.

Mary lives less than 10 minutes from my house. Mike grew up in the same town on Long Island that Johnny and I grew up in. Then Mary told me how much Mike, just as Johnny, loved the Triple Crown — a series of horse races consisting of the Kentucky Derby, Preakness Stakes and the Belmont Stakes. Mike and Johnny very often went to both the Belmont Racetrack and the Belmont Stakes. Mike brought Mary many times and I went with Johnny. Johnny and I lived less than a mile away and could ride our bikes there. Mary said she went with little money to discourage too much betting which I did too. It made me smile. Our Belmont Boys. They were the best of the best. I am hoping they have met in the world beyond this world. It would not surprise me. They are so missed.

Today I have been reading many articles written about Kelsey Grammer’s new book, “Karen, A Brother Remembers.” The author blamed himself for not being able to protect his younger sibling who was murdered, even though it was not rational. He also states “he knows a lot of people who lost their siblings and blame themselves.” I can understand and relate to Mr. Grammer’s history of profound guilt and blame.

I also blame myself for my brother’s Covid death. He was my younger sibling and I always tried to protect him as the oldest. I tried during Covid to take him out of his rehab in his nursing home but it was very complicated since he was on IV antibiotics after surgery. It was so difficult to get IV home care for him around the clock as well as wound care. Did I not try hard enough to protect him? I started worrying about Covid at the end of January 2020 and understood how dangerous this could become. My brother was in the nursing home in mid March 2020 — the worst timing. As a Physical Therapist, I am always concerned about infection control in various facilities during normal times. Could I have done more to save my brother? I was a good advocate for him, but could I have been better? Did I choose the wrong nursing home for him? Can I ever let my guilt go away? I feel like I should have saved him. I am so sorry, Johnny …

When I was a child, in the early 1970s, I wasn’t a typical child. I was diagnosed with ADHD. My school felt I shouldn’t be seen or heard. Yet my mom advocated for me and eventually I was allowed in a classroom setting. Certain family members had little to no patience with me. They didn’t realize that I had trouble dealing with the world around me, but my mom defended me. Now, I didn’t get away with everything. My mom held me accountable and didn’t allow me to use ADHD as an excuse. Over time, my mom and I found ways to deal with my ADHD and I earned 2 Masters Degrees, but none of it happens without my mom giving me a foundation to stand on.

I love you mom … I miss you and I thank God for you.

These stanzas are drawn from a longer poem, titled “Park Slope Pastoral,” which is part of Lisa Smid’s forthcoming collection, “Twenty.”

If I can just get back to this field and the unhiding city
surrounding it, I can look for you in the air, I can find you in
the wind, I can feel you in the fluctuating heat.

I want not the guardian, the scribe, the recorder, the
preserver, the worker, the man of the city, the man of the
people, the hero. Not the officer and the gentleman, but the
kindred soul who walked the world with me, who smiled
without a face, who trekked the plains of his own living
dream song and kissed me at the right stop.