Dear Kyle,

A famous psychic on Facebook said that I should write you a letter if I’m missing you. I’m not sure how this is supposed to help, but it couldn’t hurt for more than a little while, right?

It’s been 5 years since I’ve seen your face in person. I have photos of you at various ages all over the place. I love your face. You wear the same wonderful smile.

I weeded your Memorial Garden today. That’s a joke, calling it ‘your’ Memorial Garden. It should really be called the what-can-I-do-with-myself-to-not-go-crazy garden. It has a lot of the plants that we had at your Day of Celebration. Even the ones that had to wait two years to get planted are doing really well. It’s that time of year when you see the new growth poking out through the dead remnants of last year’s beauty. Who knew rocks made such a great mulch?

The Snow-In-Summer is an absolute bully. It’s crawled all over the Creeping Thyme, and has spread much further than I ever dreamed it would. Still, I feel guilty ripping out the parts that are crowding other flowers. I guess that’s not surprising. I feel guilty about everything.

I feel guilty that I didn’t offer to pay for your gym membership so that you could continue with a personal trainer to get to a healthier weight. I feel guilty for every harsh word I ever said to you. And there were plenty. I feel guilty for not being able to save you. I know that’s not realistic, but it doesn’t stop me from wishing it.

I still have the name of the woman at Charlotte’s work who came to the job sick, and spread it to her, who then spread it to you. I don’t think I would be as angry at some random person who spread the virus as I am about her, who was the clinic supervisor, and who broke every one of her own rules about coming to work ill during the pandemic. She’s listed in my notes as Kyle’s Killer.

The spiderwort has spread enormously since last year. There’s nothing to be done about it because its roots are so fleshy and bulbous and squid-like that it’s impossible to pull out. I just have to rip the tops off. I don’t mind the native vetch. It produces a beautiful purple bloom, and it has the decency to be a nitrogen fixer so it helps contribute to the health of other plants in the area.

The columbine, the pansies, the snapdragons that never died over the winter, and the salvia have all produced seedlings that are up already. It’s been an abnormally warm March. I know it’s not good for the plants, but it sure does my heart good to see all the green.

Somebody in the Facebook group Parents Who’ve Lost Children to COVID-19 said that Year 5 was really hard for her. Six months ago, I didn’t understand that. Now I get it. I’ve done okay for the last 18 months or so, but something has changed this year. I can’t put my finger on what, exactly.

I’m sure you could feel it from where you are, that I was suicidal every day for the first two years after you died. Then every other day for two years. Then less and less. It didn’t help that Austin ghosted us 6 months after you died. As awful as it is to miss you, there’s a period at the end of that sentence. Austin’s ghosting is just a continuous poking of a deep and tender wound. I’m working hard at accepting it with the same finality as I’ve accepted your death.

I’m going to continue to reach out to Austin periodically, even though he doesn’t respond. I send him a birthday text, and he sends me one. That’s the extent of our contact. But I remember when I needed to separate myself from Mother for six years, so that I could learn to see myself through my own eyes instead of through hers. You would say to me, “Mama, how would you feel if we did that to you?” And I replied that I would understand why you did it, and I would continue to apologize for the things I did and failed to do. I feel like you would want me to continue to reach out to him, even though I’ve come to the conclusion that he is not the person I thought he was. And I don’t know if I even want a relationship with who he is now. But I hear your voice in my head, encouraging me, so I’ll do it.

You and I had such a difficult relationship sometimes when you were a kid and a teenager. But I have come to appreciate the adult that you grew into. I’m glad for all the times I said that I was proud of you for reinventing yourself. I didn’t know if you would find that offensive. I think that in some way it helped you. You came such a long way from who you were at 15 to who you were at 35. I’m so proud of you.

Thank you for being my son and my friend. You are a good influence on me, and a good spiritual partner.

Until we meet again …
Love,
Mom

One of my favorite memories with my mom is our 2018 Florida trip, where we took her to her very first water park. It was the first time she had ever tried a water attraction, and seeing her so full of life was a gift. She was so sharp and witty all day, radiating pure happiness.

I can still see her in the Lazy River, letting the current pull her along, insisting, “Let’s go around one more time!” every time we reached the exit. By the end of the day, she told us she only regretted not doing it sooner. Seeing her enjoy herself so completely created a cherished memory that we will hold onto forever.

… In memory of Marilu Lopez-Santiago, who we lost on April 5th, 2020.

A little over 6 years ago, Trump promised our country that Covid would be gone by Easter. Almost 6 years ago Covid was not gone but my brother Johnny was. He died on Easter in 2020 of Covid-19. Who in our country’s leadership do we believe? Who in our country’s leadership will protect us?

This year I attended the Sixth Annual Lighting Ceremony at the Covid-19 Memorial Rami’s Heart in Wall, New Jersey.

Where did 6 years go? It seems like it was yesterday that people were making sourdough bread and complaining that they couldn’t go out while the remainder of us suffered in silence and in solitude.

There were 35,000 people who lost their lives in New Jersey and no one even remembers them. They used before Covid as a time that they had restrictions on them and had not had a loss so unbelievable that it changed them forever.

I was fortunate to be surrounded by people at the Memorial who understand it all — the 6 years, my heartache.

Ed and Marla drove together with me and it still takes your breath away to see all those stones in the yellow hearts.

How life can change so quickly and yet people forget that Covid even exists.

Today, Saint Patrick’s Day, my brother would have been celebrating his wedding anniversary, but he’s not here and I’m really pissed off about that.