This Hanukkah, I’m longing for my dear Grandma Evelyn (who did NOT want to be called “Bubbe”) and her homemade latkes that she served with stewed cinnamon apples.

She didn’t reject the moniker “Bubbe” because it sounded too “Jewish” but rather because she felt it made her seem old. This was not how we felt about her, this is what she felt.

This is our fourth holiday without her and in many ways it only seems more difficult because the world has decided to forget the pandemic and all those we lost. How few of us are left with the responsibility of remembering. Grandma would have said it is a “shonda.”

Jody was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis (MS) in October 1987 just three months after we had met. The initial impact was severe and he was unable to continue working. With Christmas approaching, Jody wanted to give me a special gift. However, he had very little money to do so. It didn’t matter to me. Having him in my life was gift enough for me.

A few days before Christmas, Jody took out an old, battered envelope, and handed it to me. “Before you open it,” he said, “I want to explain.” He told me the envelope contained something he had treasured and had intended for what he called his first “real” home. With tears in his eyes, he said, “I can’t buy you a gift, but I want you to have this.”

I gently slid the contents from the envelope. There were four Art Deco prints of covers from Vanity Fair magazine dating between 1916 and 1921. The prints were stunning in their simplicity, but, more so, was the faith Jody showed in entrusting them to me.

We shed a few tears and hugs before I slid the prints back into their envelope. I told Jody to keep them safe until we found a place of our own. We finally moved in together in early 1990. The first pictures we hung were those four prints. They still adorn the living room wall and constantly remind me of the greatest Christmas gift. And, of course, I look at them, and say “Merry Christmas, Jody.”

I open up my Facebook and there they are. All of the memories of my brother’s posts stare back at me. He posted everything from birthdays to cultural celebrations, to singing songs about Puerto Rico and, of course, Christmas, among many others. Honestly, I love them and I hate them. I hate them because he’s no longer with us. We no longer see his videos or posts wishing us a Merry Christmas. But I love them because that is all I have left. All I have is the memories, his love, and for now I have to settle for that until we meet again. Merry Christmas in heaven big brother. You will live in my heart forever.

I am thinking about my Grandpa, and how much he loved watching Seinfeld, back in its original airtimes. He was so sad when the series ended. Every year on “Festivus,” he’d comedically “air his grievances,” but his grievances were mild and weird: like my mother not putting enough ketchup on his fries, or how much he hated a certain commercial on TV. We should have all aired our grievances more strongly at COVID. Maybe it would have helped.

So here comes Christmas. The fifth one waking up without my husband Mike watching his children open presents and now his grandchildren. He missed the birth of 8 of them however I am truly blessed to be surrounded by my WTF group. Found this group searching for support during these dark days of Covid when everyone was isolating.

The WTF’s have been there for all holidays, anniversaries, births, etc etc. I don’t know what I would do without them. We cry together, laugh together, and hope that one day we will all meet in person. Covid was cruel but it brought these amazing people into my life

Merry Christmas to all, and Mike, till we meet again …