I lost my brother, Wilmard Santiago on April 15, 2020 at the height of the pandemic in New York City. Like so many others, we couldn’t be there for them. We couldn’t comfort them, hold their hand and tell them how much we loved them. We couldn’t have funerals for them.

I have added my brother’s name to so many memorials. I felt I needed to do this to keep his memory alive; to let people know he wasn’t just a number. He was a father, a son, a husband, a brother, a friend, and an all-around amazing human being. My family and I felt so lost and empty and felt we were robbed from giving him the honorable farewell he so deserved.

Then Rami’s Heart was created. I immediately added his name. Little did I know that it would become the first, permanent memorial in the US and in New Jersey, so close to home. I got the opportunity to visit and see firsthand the hearts filled with the names of loved ones lost to COVID. It was very emotional and sad to read the names and the notes left by loved ones. But at the same time it felt so peaceful. It gave me comfort that he was being honored and remembered as the wonderful human being that he was. I felt that I wasn’t alone in my pain.

I am so thankful for this permanent memorial and for the co-founders and all who helped and continue to maintain it so peaceful and serene. It was what many of us needed. My brother, Wilmard and my stepson Alberto Locascio are remembered there and I will forever be grateful to have a place to go to remember them and pray for them and all the innocent lives that were lost.

May they all rest in peace.

Having my father & also my uncle Gerald Girald Jr. memorialized at Rami’s Heart Covid-19 memorial helps me to cope and heal with their losses. I wanted their legacies to live on and for others to remember what good men they were in this world.

They were both very loving and hardworking fathers who’d do anything for their family. My father was a very healthy and lively person, he was full of energy before he contracted Covid and it literally sucked all the life right out of him. He got Covid pneumonia and it just got out of control. Same with my uncle. It’s very sad to know our loved ones passed in the hospital without family surrounding them.

I got to take my mother to visit Rami’s Heart in person over the summer of 2023 and the atmosphere is just so peaceful. The landscaping is just so beautifully set up and put together and I just love how they have a protective tunnel you can walk through to keep the rocks and stones safe from the elements of the weather and from the sun. As we walked to see the others who are memorialized I just prayed for everyone. I looked at every hand written rock, every engraved stone and every stepping stone. I just took it all in. I still can’t believe how many people we lost to Covid 19. It’s like having a terrible nightmare. It was such a tragic event in life and these innocent people didn’t deserve to die the way they did by this man made virus but it helps me realize me and my family aren’t alone in our grief.

We are all in this together and here for one another in our grieving process. It feels good to be a part of something that can keep the memories of our loved ones alive and I know each and every one of the people memorialized are looking down on us all. They are proud to know we’ll never forget them and that something like this does exist for the world to see. I’ll forever be grateful for Rima and Travis. This was an excellent idea they came up with and I’m so glad I reached out to Rima to help me in creating the stones for my father and uncle.

I lost my brother, Joe, to Covid on Tuesday, April 6, 2021 at 5:30a.m. in the morning. In 2015, he had open heart surgery for an irregular heart beat. Immediately after being discharged from the hospital, he suffered a massive stroke. For the next six years, he was unable to walk, speak, and use his right hand. In March 2021, he developed pneumonia and was brought to the hospital. He had not yet been vaccinated against Covid. Shortly before he was supposed to be discharged, he contracted Covid at the hospital and died on April 6th.

I read about Rima and Travis and their efforts to build a memorial dedicated to the memory of our loved ones. I have written to President Biden, Senator Menendez, Senator Booker, and Congressman Gothheimer asking them to support efforts to build a memorial to the loved ones we have lost to Covid. We have visited the Rami’s Heart Covid memorial in Wall Township and we purchased a heart for my brother that has been placed on the ground with other hearts. In addition, we have supported other fund raising efforts. We attended the service at Rami’s Heart after the “HOPE” letters with our loved ones’ photos returned from Washington D.C.

I can’t begin to tell you how meaningful it is to be with people who are experiencing the same loss. Shared grief is a powerful emotion and I believe it is an integral part of the healing process. We live in Bergen County so we cannot visit often; however, it is comforting to know there is a place to go where our hearts can grieve and heal.

At this time of the year, I think of all the precious moments spent with my brother Johnny who was one year younger than me. We would frequently rake leaves together and enjoy jumping into the huge piles, hiding in them too. So many kids in our Long Island, New York neighborhood would join us. We had a blast! Our dad would burn the leaves as was common practice back then. The fires were mesmerizing and the smell permeated the block.

Our parents — and grandmother who lived with us –- would join us, carving pumpkins while we had apple cider, donuts, and hot chocolate. Then Johnny and I would ride our bikes together and enjoy the brilliant colors of the trees and the glorious fresh, crisp autumn air. The landscape burst into magnificent shades of yellow and gold, red and burgundy, orange and rust. Johnny and I would climb neighborhood apple trees and bring home a basket of apples.

All these memories are so very vivid. My brother was there from the beginning and we had so many shared experiences. When I lost Johnny I lost an irreplaceable connection to my childhood.

I alone am now the keeper of these memories.

Have you ever experienced moving from one place to another? Where you didn’t know where to get help, how to the find the food to cook your meals or speak their language?

During Hispanic Heritage month (Sept 15-Oct 15), I am moved to remember my abuelito Tobias Noboa, from Ecuador, who may have died as a result of Covid on May 25, 2020, but whose life transcends. In America, he may have been called an immigrant, but to me he was my abuelito, my grandpa, who brought home my favorite strawberry shortcake from the Du Bois Bakery with out need for a celebration. He was the grandpa who once called every place we’d gone to for errands one weekend and finally found and drove to PC Richards to pick up my stuffed ‘chubby’ bear I left behind, that was practically my shadow and who with out being by my side I wouldn’t be able to sleep. And when Julio Jaramillo songs would play, he was my grandpa who was moved to tears and wasn’t shy to hide it and would tell me “Los recuerdos solo quedan de mi juventud” “Memories are what’s left of my younger days”. He wasn’t defined by how he was different to his family, though the Italian neighborhood he settled in might have. Today I am proud to share him, his legacy and the resilience he didn’t know he had, but that I am in awe of.

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¿Alguna vez has experimentado mudarte de un lugar a otro? ¿Donde no sabías dónde conseguir ayuda, cómo encontrar comida para cocinar o hablar su idioma?
Durante el Mes de la Herencia Hispana (15 de Septiembre al 15 de Octubre), me conmueve recordar a mi abuelo Tobías Noboa, de Ecuador, quien aunque fallecio a consecuencia del Covid el 25 de Mayo de 2020, pero cuya vida trasciende. En Los Estados Unidos, puede que lo llamaran inmigrante, pero para mí él era mi abuelo, el que traía a casa mi pastel de fresas favorito de Du Bois Bakery sin necesidad de celebración. Él era el abuelo que una vez llamó a todos los lugares a los donde habíamos ido a hacer compras un fin de semana hasta que logro encontrar done perdi mi osito de peluche ‘gordito’ que dejé atrás. Y cuando sonaban las canciones de Julio Jaramillo, él era mi abuelo que se conmovía hasta las lágrimas y no tuvo reparo en ocultarlo y me decía “Los recuerdos sólo quedan de mi juventud”. El barrio mayoritariamente Italiano donde compró su casa y crió a sus hijos, nietos y bisnietos puede que lo conociera como un inmigrante, pero para mí él era simplemente mi abuelo. Hoy estoy orgullosa de compartirlo y su legado y la resiliencia que no sabía que tenía, pero que me asombra.