On Good Friday, just a couple of days ago, I decided to watch “The Passion of the Christ,” a movie I’ve watched a couple of times but had not watched in a few years. I didn’t know I was going to get triggered by it at the end of the movie. As I sat watching this movie that tells the heartbreaking story of how Jesus gave up his own life, to take away our sins, I cried as I saw the torture that he endured. It’s such a hard movie to watch. Then there was the scene when Jesus is crucified and says, “I love you, love one another.” I sat there sobbing silently.

My brother became ill April 7, 2020. It was Easter week. That day was the last day we got a text from him. Part of his text was, “I love you, love each other.” Reading the subtitle in the movie was like reading my brother’s last text and it hit hard. It was his goodbye. He passed on April 15, 2020. Our lives were never the same.

I have such fond memories using Easter egg decorating kits with my brother Johnny the day before Easter. We both loved coloring the hard boiled eggs our mother made. We made an absolute mess of our kitchen covered with many newspapers. We had so many plastic cups everywhere holding the dye tablets. It was so much fun adding the water and vinegar and then coloring all the eggs while spilling the dye water all over the table. We colored the eggs in every color possible and then later further decorated them with a wax pencil and many stickers. We were so proud of our accomplishment and placed them in an Easter basket and this went on for years.

My brother was receiving rehab following surgery in the very beginning of the Pandemic in 2020. I recall him telling me when he gets discharged , he hoped to color eggs with his grandniece Amanda, my granddaughter. Tragically, he died of Covid the day before Easter. Tomorrow is Easter and I want to remember and honor Johnny and all the beloved souls who passed from Covid. You will never be forgotten.

It has been almost four years since the Cuomo administration’s March 25th directive prevented nursing homes from refusing patients admission just because they had Covid. More than 9,000 active Covid patients were moved from NY hospitals into NY nursing homes early in the Pandemic. Tragically my brother Johnny was in short-term rehab in one of those nursing homes and several days later contracted Covid.

There were so many options other than sending them into nursing homes. I have no question that placing Covid-19 patients into facilities which were understaffed, unprepared, with poor infection control caused a greater number of deaths. I believe my dear brother was one of them. Johnny should still be here.

Today I went to the Pearl River New York St. Patrick’s day parade and was looking at all the happy people wearing their green. Did they forget that four years ago today there weren’t parades? Bars had already ordered their supplies of beer and corned beef ready for the big day and were complaining they how could they be shut down. Why didn’t we take Covid seriously. Maybe if we had there would be over 1 million Americans who could be at parades today.

It was St. Patrick’s Day 2020. Just a few days earlier, the World Health Organization had declared the COVID-19 virus a global pandemic. Here in New York City, our world was shutting down. Schools and churches were closing. Offices were converting to a work-from-home model. And, the restaurants were closed for indoor dining. Luckily, the restaurants were allowed to open for take-out meals.

Jody and I often celebrated St. Patrick’s Day at Coogan’s, a beloved Irish pub and restaurant in the Washington Heights neighborhood where we lived. We were disappointed that we wouldn’t be able to join the shenanigans at Coogan’s — the singing of traditional Irish ballads and the dancing of Irish jigs performed by diners who were well lubricated with some Guinness or Harp’s. We were happy to see that we could still order our St. Patrick’s Day meals even if we had to eat them at home.

I had called in our order the day before. Now, late in the afternoon on the 17th, I jumped on the bus and headed off to pick up our feast. Thinking back, I’m amazed. We weren’t yet accustomed to face masks and social distancing and the other hallmarks of our lockdown reality. Our lives continued like they always had. I arrived at Coogan’s and paid for our meals. I felt a sense of sadness as I looked around. This gathering place, normally bustling, noisy and full of fun, was shockingly quiet. All the tables and chairs were empty as if there was a banquet for ghosts in progress.

Back home, I spread out the feast. There were sizeable portions of lean corned beef, with boiled potatoes, and steamed cabbage. There was also a loaf of Irish soda bread still warm from the oven. We were about to eat when Jody said, “We should have some beer.” I looked in the back of the refrigerator and found two bottles of Guinness forgotten, most likely, since last St. Patrick’s Day. I poured them into a couple of glasses and headed back to the table.

We toasted the day and offered a prayer that this invisible killer would soon be contained. We feasted on that wonderful dinner enjoying every mouthful as if it were our last one.

Sadly, thirty-three days later that novel coronavirus would steal Jody away from me. Now I am left with the memory of our last St. Patrick’s Day, the last time we were able to celebrate together.