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.

“Hours are slow and weeks rapid in their vacancy.” – Donald Hall

Here I am, two years later feeling like today was once again the day you died but 48 calendar pages have flipped since the day my world shattered.

Flash! I saw a photo of us, and “Zoom”, I have time-traveled back to 2013 in an instant and here we are in Taos with the hot wind blowing my hair as we gaze into the depths of the Rio Grande Gorge and curly horned rams head-butt each other with shuffling hooves in the rugged turf and we all hear the loud echoing crashes of their hollow horns competing for dominance where they met each other in that field by the Bridge.

Back to work, in front of my computer. I am in 2023, doing my job.

I look at the calendar. Today should have been our 25th wedding anniversary. I sigh deeply. The thought hits me that I’m so unlikely to ever get to have a 25th wedding anniversary in my lifetime now, even if I remarry. I cry. Why? It is just a number. I am sad it can’t be with you; that’s heartbreaking, my love. And it probably won’t ever happen for me at my age with anyone. Not unless I live to be ancient, that is.

It seems to take forever for that microwave dinner to heat up. Too much time to think. My mind wanders. But the seconds are still slowly whirring by as the platter spins and the timer counts down. So slow, that kind of time.

It is now two years since you died; how can that be? Two years, 48 calendar pages, 104 weeks – all so vacant without your bigger-than-life presence, your love, your laughter, your music, your heart.

Woosh – time-traveling again, I am! I am seeing all those memories of our 20th anniversary now. I am back in Eureka Springs, AR with you for that most wonderful trip we had together. We even time-traveled while we were there! We visited the past – two decades prior – and had a great time sharing those 20-year-old memories together.

Thank you for leaving me with that gift.

Time travel is restricted somehow or not working like I want it to. Did I break it? Did it break me? It’s so Odd how it isn’t letting me go forward very far at all. I can barely even see tomorrow.

Lil Al, my stepson, was no little guy. He was about 6′ 2″ tall and the sweetest man you could ever meet. I miss him very much. It hurts that he’s no longer here with us. But I hurt so much more for my son who lost his oldest brother. They were inseparable.

My son lost his father, my husband, almost nine years ago. Lil Al stepped up and was there for his youngest brother. They worked together, worked out together and really bonded after their father’s passing. My son had someone to look up to and share everything with. But on September 20, 2021 Lil Al was taken away from him too. I see so much of Al in my son and in Al’s son Nicholas. The smiles, the gestures, the way they talk are all reminders of Al. His anniversary will be here soon and we wish he was still here. But he is resting in a better place. We look forward to that reunion one day. We love and miss you!

This is our third Rosh Hashana without Bubbe, who died due to Covid in May 2020. We were talking about her as we planned our family meal and wound up pondering the mystery of her insistence on always cooking and serving us brisket, though none of us wanted to eat it, half of us being vegan, and even SHE didn’t like meat, and less so the older she grew.

I miss her more than I can say. I may have to eat brisket now.

Twenty-two years ago my husband drove into NYC for work as usual. As he was coming out of the Holland Tunnel, he saw a gaping hole in the building. Tunnels were closed, he couldn’t come home. Made it out to Long Island where his brother lived. No cell phones working. Finally got in touch with Mike at night. Thought I lost him then. But nineteen years later, I lost Mike in the same way. All alone. Going someplace and never returning.