Terminal

At the end of the line,
Coney Island and Stillwell,
There is plenty of time
and there is no time.
The wait for your next train
to assemble itself uptown.
You’ve shown me the works
In the conductor’s car already,
After waiting outside
The employee lounge for you
On the second floor, staring at
The bright summer sea,
what ride I believe to be
The parachute jump.
But that’s all past now.
I’ll be gone for months.
It’s our fourth date,
I will solidify the all-along
plans to move here,
And at some point we’ll bid goodbye.
But I’ve learned already that
the sweethearts’ sweet sorrow
parting is not for us. The pizza store
is for hellos, not goodbyes.
You never release me to the day
without escorting me home
Or at least to the last possible
subway stop before we part
company. And now we’re sitting
in an empty car near your booth
As you rattle off random transit trivia.
You smile your tufty mustachioed grin
and talk about your shift, jerk your
head out the window through to the
terminal silently populating,
you look around, rattle off a fact
and another fact, dart your eyes,
and quietly admit, “I can kiss you now.”
I couldn’t spit back your train factoids
if a gun were to my head, but when the
coarse lip hair grazes my lips, I can
name and taxonomize every scent,
touch, thought, and permutation
of each that hits my senses.
This kiss must do. You cannot do
PDAs in uniform.
You never kiss me in public
at all except at the pizza store
Or whenever we’re alone.
When the train runs and you shift
into conductor mode, the last goodbye
Is a swift acknowledgement
At the booth window,
Gone as soon as it is delivered.

You, you are more practical.
You can live without the
proper lovers’ parting embrace.
You’ve just always wanted to know
I was riding your train.
I want to believe, always,
That you’ll sense me on the other side
Of the car door, knowing and acknowledging
What’s what and where it’s all going,
Feeling the same turns and rumbles
Of everything moving forward.

More people in the United States have died from COVID-19 over the past several years than from breast cancer and prostate cancer combined. Yet Robert F. Kennedy Jr., the head of Health and Human Services says Covid is nothing to worry about. He says that “Covid is gone“ and testifies untruthfully before Congress.

COVID-19 is still with us and still resulting in the deaths of Americans. I read that a report from the federal government’s Center for Disease Control and Prevention stated that the Covid vaccine has prevented hospitalizations and saved many lives. Yet the report was scrapped and not published. It sure looks like they don’t want Americans to know how effective the Covid vaccine is.

For me it is a hard and painful gut punch. I believe my brother who died of Covid before the vaccine was available would still be here if he could have had the vaccine. So would so many others. We deserve better leadership and so did Johnny and all the others we lost.

How can it be? A day that should be filled with love, surrounded by family, a great round of golf, along with an evening of relaxing to the rhythm that once filled the room from his talented drumming. Now, these moments are only cherished memories as we celebrate Gary’s beautiful legacy. A loving husband, devoted father, joyful G-Daddy to his Grands, and extraordinary nurse who gave care, compassion, and comfort to so many.

Today, we honor not just the day he was born, but the life he lived, the love he gave, and the lasting impact he left on every heart he encountered. The 6th Birthday without you …

“Good morning, Jody.”

These last six years, I’ve started every day the same way. As I walk by his photograph
hanging on the living room wall, I let him know I still remember. And I sardonically joke
that while I’m aging, he doesn’t look a day older. Many mornings, I’m certain he’s looking
back with a mocking twinkle in his eyes.

I think what I miss most is the minutiae of our daily life together. What do you want for
breakfast? Should I make dinner tonight or should we go out somewhere? What are we
watching on TV tonight? The friendly banter that filled our days is gone. Now, I just have
to decide everything for myself. Other things, I just let them slide. Like the redecorating
I’ve been thinking about. Jody was the one with an eye for color and design. I guess I’ll
just have to try to choose something in line with the style and colors he chose so many
years ago when we moved in together. I hope he will approve.

Those who knew Jody, know he was an ardent “Trekkie,” a fan of the various
incarnations of the Star Trek franchise. The past few weeks, as the world has been
fascinated by the Artemis II mission, I know Jody would have been glued to the TV
taking in every detail. I like to think he’s been watching from the other side of the stars.
It’s those special moments, when he’s not here to share them, that always lay heavy on my
heart.

Six years. Has it really been that long? I guess so. I continue to move forward day by day.
The only difference is that Jody is in my heart rather than at my side.

The last thing I do every night on my way to bed is to pause by Jody’s photograph on the
wall.

“Good night, Jody. Sleep well.”

I asked my 12 year old tonight to think of a memory of my dad (“Paw”) that he could share with me. I realized just today that dad has been gone now exactly half of Sam’s lifetime.

As I was waiting, I was quickly shuffling through all of the wonderful memories I had of Sam and dad fishing, playing Uno together, of watching cartoons and laughing together. I was remembering the twinkle in his eye that he had every time he saw one of his grandchildren. I was eagerly awaiting to hear any of these that are in my own memory as if they happened yesterday.

He thought for a moment and said, “I remember two things: him being at the top of the steps when we got there and I ran up and gave him a big hug. His beard was scratchy. And then also when he was in the hospital.”

I struggled to hide my devastation. This whole time I thought he remembered the same things. I talk about Paw almost every day, desperately trying to lessen the impact that passing time has on memories.

After a moment I realized that although Sam might not remember all of the things that I do about Paw, I know the love he felt from him will be a part of him for the rest of his life.

That’s what it’s all about, after all, the love you share and the imprint it leaves behind to help lead you in life. And my dad never failed to show his love for us. And for that reason, he will be with Sam and be part of who Sam is, forever.