Yesterday we interred my brother Johnny’s ashes in a nearby cemetery. He passed from Covid-19 very early in the Pandemic. My mother kept an urn of his ashes and also my father’s ashes in her bedroom and would not part with them.

Since my mother recently passed, I was able to inter both my mother’s, father’s and Johnny’s ashes. We had approximately 20 family members and very close friends there. The minister gave a beautiful service and my son Sean played the guitar and sang beautiful and meaningful songs and so did my husband. They read the poems I chose: “Crossing The Bar” by Alfred Lord Tennyson and “Death Is Nothing At All” by Henry Scott Holland. We shared many memories of my late family members.

My dear and special friend Mary Mantell was present for which I was grateful. We helped and supported each other through the past six years of complex grief since Mary lost her beloved husband Mike to Covid . The formal memorial service and burial finally occurred. Now I can visit my original family that I grew up with at the cemetery. I have some peace that they are finally together.

May they all rest in eternal peace .

It’s hard to wrap my mind around the fact that it’s been six years since losing you. When I think about something that was so deeply a part of who you were, I always come back to soccer—especially Liverpool. I can still picture you waking up early, no matter how tired you were, just to watch a match. It wasn’t just a game to you—it was something you truly loved.

Some of my favorite memories are of you sitting there with your bagel, and once Elsie came along, she made that time her own too. She’d sit on your lap, sneaking bites—most of the time taking more than her fair share—and you never minded. You just held her close and watched the game together. Those quiet, simple moments meant everything.

And now, every time Elsie steps onto the field, she’s carrying a piece of you with her. The love you had for the game lives on in her—in the way she plays, the joy she feels, and the heart she puts into every moment. And she honors you in such a special way, wearing the number 24—your birthday—close to her every time she plays.

It’s her way of keeping you with her, of making sure that you’re part of every game and every step she takes on that field. She may not fully remember those mornings, but they are a part of her, woven into who she is. In so many ways, she’s honoring you every single time she plays.

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 …