There is a four-foot cherry wood dresser that sits in my mother’s bedroom. On the top sits a honey-colored jewelry box, with two drawers filled with tiny fragments of her life. Rings, necklaces and assorted items collected over a lifetime. Most were gifts from my dad, some from my brothers and me. Beside it sits a sea urchin lamp my mother made after one of our trips. Other nicknacks are scattered across the top along with a large eyed, cream and tan stuffed sloth. In the far corner of the top right-hand drawer, with a variety of clothing, sits a small bundle wrapped in a soft cloth and my dad’s old handkerchiefs. Carefully placed there by my mother’s hands.

If you were to lift that small bundle from the drawer and carefully unwrap the layers placed around it, nestled inside you would find my father’s wristwatch. It isn’t the one he wore the day they married so long ago, but the last one he wore before everything changed. It has a slightly worn golden-colored watch band that’s interlocking pieces gently stretched to allow his wrist to slip easily through. Scratches are sprinkled around its perimeter from years of wear on his left arm. The crystal is still clear with minute scratches, while the bezel still shines, allowing the reflections to dance across the ceiling and walls as it moves ever so slightly in your hands, catching the incoming sunlight just right. Although there was more than one watch, this last one continued the mission just as the ones before it had. In essence, carrying on, time uninterrupted.,

Those watches were there when his three kids were born and when he held each grandchild for the first time. For every walk with my mother, my grandmothers, or me, a watch always quietly hugged my dad’s wrist, silently keeping time. Always present for lessons in baseball or softball, basketball or shooting pool, skating and bowling. I can’t remember a day when there wasn’t one present, at least until his last two years.

The watch was there on dad’s wrist, as my arm encircled his and my right hand rested just above where it sat. In the exact same moment, he walked me to my future husband, while his watch recorded the time. It was there when each of my brothers married their wives and the days he said his final goodbyes to his father-in-law, his mother and mother-in-law. The watch that was placed so carefully in the dresser drawer, was the one he wore the day his oldest son took his last breath. It was on his wrist the day our world changed, and his mind just couldn’t tame the dementia any longer. That was when the gold-colored watch came off and was replaced by an inexpensive black one. He told everyone in the Healthcare Facility about it. In his mind it was a wonderful gift from someone who cared. At some point during the pandemic lockdown, his roommate ended up in possession of it. By then it didn’t matter to dad, he didn’t remember it. Dad’s watch was already gently wrapped, quietly sitting in a drawer.

Inside that dresser, where the watch sits so carefully wrapped, my mother’s wedding ring now joins it. My mother wore that ring every day for the fifty-seven years they were married and after dad passed away, until the metal was worn so thin, it was ready to wear through. Another ring is sitting on that finger now. Like dad’s watches, mom’s new ring is continuing the mission, uninterrupted.

My baby brother died four years ago today, February 16th. He was far from a baby at 57 but he should have lived much past that. Covid took him, as it did so many others. The pain is made worse by observing how our country has moved on without acknowledging the pandemic and honoring the lives of the ones we lost and honoring the trauma and grief of those who lost them. That is why Who We Lost is so vital. We will not forget and today, I remember “George “Frenchy” Gregorian.

Pretty much everybody called him Georgie and that is how his memory is embedded in my soul. He was funny, argumentative, could fix anything, an entrepreneur and always willing to help someone out of a bind. He loved Christmas and since his death, the fun and joy of the season has diminished greatly. Georgie had a close group of Armenian friends and they have been kind and sweet enough to stay connected. At Christmas Eve Open House at one friend’s home, as we chatted and enjoyed good food, Georgie became the topic of conversation and the stories flowed out of his friends, their wives and even their kids. I was familiar with some but there were other antics that I had never heard of and others, frankly, I probably would have preferred not hearing about!! But I was struck by the laughter in the room and it was nice to talk about him without feeling sad.

I am grateful for all the stories, the photos and memories because they keep him with all of us who loved him. And thank you to Who We Lost for giving us a voice to my brother and all the others.

I have been watching the Winter Olympics in Milan-Cortina on TV and I particularly love Speed Skating. It is one of the oldest and time-honored of sports in the history of the Olympics. It is my favorite sport to watch and always has been. My brother Johnny and I were amateur speed skaters and he also loved this sport as much as I did. We taught ourselves and somehow we managed to be pretty good at this sport. The winters were quite cold growing up on Long Island when we did, comparable to our present very cold winter in New Jersey. Long Island was surrounded by water so we could walk or get a ride to various lakes, ponds or bays. After we arrived, we would lace up our ice skates and get to racing each other and often had friends with us too. We were very close in age–only 14 months apart and we had no other siblings. Throughout our lives we had a great bond of love and support for each other. Covid-19 took my only sibling away from me so suddenly and unexpectedly like a thief in the night. I will always think of Johnny when I see skating.

I was walking by the Hilltop Diner the other day (yeah, I know they changed the name, but, for us, it will always be the Hilltop) and noticed that all the windows were papered over. I went around the corner to the entrance where I saw a small sign tucked into the door frame: “After 40 years, we’ve lost our lease. The rent is too damn high. Thanks for your patronage.” I sighed and the memories flooded in.

I’m sure you remember how Hilltop was our go-to place when we first met. If it was Friday evening, we could be found at Hilltop. The food was good and, more importantly, we were thrilled that the prices were affordable for two young guys just starting out. You always were partial to the Reuben sandwich and I usually went for a Monte Cristo because, as you soon found out, I don’t like sauerkraut. We washed everything down with a Doctor Pepper which you convinced me to try when I didn’t think there was anything beyond ginger ale.

You were adamant that we take the booth in the back, right next to the big picture window so we could watch the world pass by. This is the place where we really got to know each other. We shared our stories — the good and the bad — and dished the latest gossip and the mundane routines of our everyday lives. I’ll never forget how we laughed and laughed again. We grew comfortable with each other. We fell in love.

Since you left, when I’ve passed by Hilltop, I’ve often stared at my reflection in that big picture window, and wished that we could share just one more meal, to laugh again, to remember, to gaze out at a world that has changed so much. Now I worry that the places that help keep your memory alive in my heart are slowly disappearing. Time is such a thief.

It’s almost time for the Super Bowl. Spectators will be watching the game from all over the country, eagerly anticipating the match between the two teams. My dad would watch the Super Bowl, enjoying it with whatever beer was his favorite at the time. Of all the games I watched with my dad, there is only one I remember.

When I close my eyes to reflect on that day, I’m unsure if it was the big game, or just a random one. In the shadows of the memory, I know we are at my grandparents’ home. It’s an overcast winter day, the light slipping in from the window is softly moving with the trees outside. There’s a tv in the corner with a football game on and muffled voices from the kitchen drifting in. The smell of food is wafting through the doorway with the remembrance of the love that emanated there.

By that doorway, my dad is sitting in an overstuffed chair, my grandfather sits across the room from him. Beside dad is the Christmas tree my grandfather chose, with its top bent over, branches flattened against the ceiling, because it was too tall. Its boughs full of ornaments and large lights. Presents that were once wedged beneath the low-lying branches are now gone. The aroma from the tree is still pleasantly filling the space with the scent of pine. Other than the hum of the announcers’ voices, the room is quiet and still.

It’s one of those memories where you feel it, more than you remember it. You know it happened, but everything in your mind when you pull it up “feels” blurry. A fleeting moment that happened so ordinarily simple, routine. Nothing spectacular or extraordinary, just the way childhood is supposed to be. Something about that moment was more than that. It’s as if for a brief moment everything stopped. There was just me and dad. No work or school. No worries or football games.

I had climbed onto my dad’s lap, sitting there with my head against his shoulder. One of those moments you don’t even think about. He was watching the game and I was resting, tired from a busy morning. I don’t know whether he took my hand or I placed mine into his. Unconsciously Dad was gently pushing the tips of my fingers backwards and I was pushing his the other way. My fingers stretching a little farther each time, as far as they would go until they were bent straight back. Both of us surprised at how easily they moved backwards. Then the quiet moment was gone and the football game was the center of attention again. I doubt whether dad ever thought about it, it was just a normal afternoon. I really don’t know why it finds its way through the plethora of memories I have, to suddenly, stealthily say here I am. Forgotten, until I close my eyes, hearing my grandma in the kitchen with mom, grandpa and dad watching the game and seven-year-old me totally unaware of how precious and fleeting those tiny seconds in time are.