My brother Johnny and I had a wonderful relationship. We could look at each other and communicate without words. We were great supports for each other since we were toddlers together. We both made each other feel like we always mattered. We were there for one another throughout our lives and had unconditional love.

When Johnny died of Covid-19 almost 6 years ago, I felt a good part of myself died too. Yet I felt his loss happened to my mother, which of course it did, and felt like my pain and grief did not matter. I put myself on the back burner and so did everyone else. Yet I found a sibling death devastating. I discovered sibling grief, especially when older, is often ignored, overlooked, minimized and disenfranchised . Yet my relationship with Johnny, my only sibling, was the longest relationship I shared with anyone since my father had passed and my mother had significant dementia. I lost someone who shared our deepest and earliest memories and years together. I was now an only child struggling for 6 years to manage a very ill mother with dementia without my brother. I was relieved that mother always thought Johnny was still alive and I would go along with her belief. I kept appropriately protecting my mother and often neglecting my own grief. I also continued to feel guilty that I made the decision to place my bother in a nursing home for short term rehabilitation following surgery. My brother had no partner so I was his Health Proxy. However I did not know that Covid-19 was significantly present in this nursing home and no one had warned Johnny or I. I still felt responsible that I failed him and should have sent him home with an aide and home therapists. The worse decision I ever made in my life. I sent him into a lions den of death.

Now when I know someone who lost a close sibling I understand their loss and I am there for them. I make sure I acknowledge their loss, their pain and their grief so it is not put on the back burner and neglected.

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.