Yesterday I was scrolling through Facebook and came upon my step grandson’s junior prom photos his mom posted. He looked so handsome with his date by his side. It made me happy and it made me sad. My stepson Al should have been part of these important moments in his son’s life. I was sad for Nicholas who would have loved to have his dad there with him. So happy, yet so sad.

I thought I was a serious walker until I moved to New York and met my love. Walking three miles to and from my college campus was no big deal. I walked 50 to 100 blocks in Manhattan. But I had nothing on Ben.

Like me, Ben was often “in the zone” when he walked. When he headed to “the pizza store,” I’d see him coming full speed ahead down the street before he turned the corner into the restaurant entrance. His face was a study of intensity: half the time he looked like he was about to go read someone the Riot Act.

I knew not to wear heels when Ben and I were going somewhere. It was never just a meal. Lunch or dinner was the gateway to a full-fledged schlepfest.

We walked from the Bronx to downtown Yonkers. We schlepped the entire length of South Brooklyn. We trekked every retired rail line that had been upcycled into a walking trail. Even when we talked of his younger years, pounding the literal pavement was central to Ben’s life. He spent lonely teenage summers walking the perimeter of Brooklyn Army Terminal. He processed his first girlfriend’s dumping him with a long walk. He secured parental permission to walk city train yards at 15.

Ben never studied philosophy, as I did in my college major, but he would have appreciated Soren Kierkegaard: “Above all, do not lose your desire to walk. Everyday, I walk myself into a state of well-being & walk away from every illness. I have walked myself into my best thoughts, and I know of no thought so burdensome that one cannot walk away from it. But by sitting still, & the more one sits still, the closer one comes to feeling ill. Thus if one just keeps on walking, everything will be all right.”

I remembered that when I walked the Brooklyn Bridge in his memory at the Covid March to Remember.

My “Uncle Vic” died last week. I put that in quotation marks because he wasn’t a blood relative. He was my dad’s best friend. I lost my dad four years ago and now that Uncle Vic has died (he was 91), it feels like another piece of my dad is gone. Uncle Vic got sick about 10 years ago and I remember thinking how devastated my dad was going to be if he died. Who knew what the universe would have in store …

My siblings and I went to the wake and funeral. Shared a lot of memories with my “cousins.” Our families grew up together. My mom was best friends with my “Aunt Peggy.” The only solace I take is that the Fab Four, as we called them, are together again.

One: “You Were Always on My Mind”

The day started with a call letting me know that your vital signs indicated you were nearing the end. Much to my surprise, in the midst of the pandemic lockdown, they said I could see you one more time. I ran and caught the bus to the hospital. It was like entering the Twilight Zone. That normally hyperactive place was silent, the locked doors mocked by a deadly virus that had already snuck inside.

Suited up with protective gear from head to toe, they led me to your bed. You looked so peaceful. Someone had placed an iPad on your pillow and it was playing your favorite country music including Patsy Cline and Willie Nelson. I had thirty minutes to reminisce about our thirty-three years together. I laughed as I remembered some of the capers we got caught up in. I guess you recalled them as well because the heart monitor occasionally fluttered, chuckling on your behalf.

The time flew by and eventually they signaled me that the time was up. As I gave you a goodbye kiss on your forehead, the sound of Willie Nelson crooning “You were always on my mind” floated out of the iPad. Yes, indeed, you will always be on my mind.

***

Two: 3:15pm

“Hi Ed, this is Becky at the hospital. I’m sorry, but we still have to return Jody’s personal items to you.”

Just a few hours earlier, Becky had called me with the unwanted news that you were now at peace. Your fight against COVID-19 was finished.

Now, late in the afternoon, I headed to the hospital to retrieve the few worldly things you left behind. Outside the locked doors, I called the nurses station to let them know I was there. A few minutes later Becky appeared with a small plastic bag inscribed with your name. Inside was your watch and the ring that matched the one on my finger. I slipped the bag into my jacket pocket and made the journey home.

It wasn’t until a few days later that I remembered that plastic bag. I opened it and took out the ring. I slipped it onto my finger next to my own ring: a reminder of the union of our spirits.

Then, I slid out the watch. I noticed that it had stopped at 3:15 PM. I was taken aback. That was the time that Becky had called me to let me know that you had passed.

Back then, I thought that was the time my world, our world had come to an end. Now, four years later, I see the time on the watch as a new start for both of us. We are still together. You are present guiding me as I work to tell your story and to keep your memory alive. The ring and the watch still stay close with me reminding me of how we loved each other and the life we shared together.

Four years ago today at 5:20 pm I would get the phone call that would change my life forever. I can still hear that nurse’s young voice, not having had experience telling people over the phone the dreadful news: Your husband coded and you aren’t allowed to come to the hospital to see him one last time.

It has taken four years to try and move forward and focus on love and our life together instead of that horrible day. Four years to keep your memory and voice from fading. You were a part of me for 40 years. That love will never fade.