December 20, 2025 marks five years since Steve left this world. He did not leave willingly. He was taken by COVID-19, contracted inside an HCA hospital that assured the public it was open and safe.

Grief does not move in straight lines. Five years later, I am not whole. I am not the person I was when our lives were intertwined. I keep trying — because trying is what remains when nothing is certain. My therapist says trying is doing. Still, I ask myself what that doing is supposed to look like when the world refuses to acknowledge the millions who died from COVID, or the families left behind to carry that loss quietly.

I isolate more now. I cannot sit comfortably among Trump supporters, anti-vaxxers, Charlie Kirk acolytes, or people who announce, as if neutrality were moral, that they “don’t talk politics.” What happened to my husband was not theoretical, it was political and it’s still political. 

So I live in a smaller, quieter place.  I drink coffee with Coffee Mate Natural Bliss sweet cream from Steve’s coffee machine. I draw neurographica lines, hoping to reroute a brain reshaped by trauma. I keep Steve’s stones close. I wear his Halston cologne — the one he used every day — misting it onto my skin, our bed, the pillow sewn from one of his shirts.

And sometimes I receive signs. Sandhill cranes appearing when I least expect them. Dolphins surfacing briefly, as if to say hello. A tortoise crossing my path, deliberate and unhurried. I look up the spiritual meanings of these sightings. I let them speak to me. I find feathers and coins  — on sidewalks, in parking lots, in places that have no special association to us. But, I read what these finds are said to mean. I choose to believe they are messages from Steve, small reassurances sent across whatever distance now exists between us.

These are not attempts to move on. There is no moving on. Only ways of staying in conversation with love. Proof that memory is not weakness, that connection does not end just because a body does.
Five years later, joy does not arrive big or whole. It arrives in fragments — scent, ritual, wings, water, metal warmed by the sun — and it is not enough. But it is all I have. 

Nothing was more sacred to my husband Mike than picking out the Christmas tree. Now we don’t have high ceilings and not much space but he always picked the biggest fattest tree. Of course we laughed and laughed while he struggled to get it to fit. Then the wait till the branches fell before he would put on the lights.

Mike would sit for hours under the Christmas tree just enjoying the season of lights. Hope and love.
I put up the tree again without you as I continue to honor all the things you enjoyed. And yes, I ordered more Christmas lights because you always said there wasn’t enough.

My brother Johnny and I always opened our gifts on Christmas Eve–a German tradition. Our father had many hobbies and one of his favorites was HO-Gauge model railroading. We always had a train circling our Christmas tree. It enabled such great entertaining and imaginative play for us for many years at Christmastime. It was magical and captivating.

In our basement, our dad had an extensive train set on a huge table that we played with throughout the year and at Christmas. We loved all the model trains but also the ability to create entire miniature worlds with homes, stores, mountains, towns, people , trees, and rivers. These train sets were a lifelong passion of my dad and Johnny. They passed on their appreciation for this hobby to my 2 children into their adulthood, creating lasting memories for our entire family.

Family … we loved, we laughed, we celebrated. Milestones, accomplishments, birthday, holidays; you were always there. Present and embracing, encouraging and loving, filling every room with your laughter, your hugs, your stories.

Then November 28, 2020 came … and time stopped. Life forever changed.

Yet your unconditional love has carried me through these five years; and I know it will continue to carry me in all the days ahead.

Gary Alan Woodward … My forever love … Never to be forgotten.

Thanksgiving is here again. For many, it will be their first celebration with a vacant place at the dinner table. For some of us who lost a cherished loved one to COVID-19, it might be the sixth such Thanksgiving. That’s the case for me, another celebration without my partner, Jody.

I remember that when Thanksgiving 2020 approached, there was a lull in the ongoing global pandemic that led many Americans to head home for traditional family gatherings, if only as a respite from the isolation they had been experiencing throughout the year.

At that time, there was an effort called “The Empty Chair” which served to remind people in the U. S. that many would be filled with a sense of grief at their holiday celebrations. I remember during dinner at my sister’s home we continued to set a place for Jody at the table. It was intended to remind us of his absence. As we shared our meal, that solitary plate provoked memories of Thanksgivings past with Jody as we shared our favorite Jody stories.

In recent years, we have continued to remember Jody as we enjoy our family time together. A few weeks ago, I stumbled across a clip of an old Bob Hope holiday program. Hope always ended his shows with his trademark song, “Thanks for the Memory.” It made me realize that while the dish on the table may be empty, the chair is full of memories of a life well lived.

And so, I share a snippet of the lyrics from the conclusion of the song to keep in your heart as you celebrate this Thanksgiving.

Strictly entre nous,
Darling, how are you?
And how are all
Those little dreams
That never did come true?
Awfully glad I met you,
Cheerio and toodle-loo
Thank you,
Thank you so much.

Thanks for the memory (1938)
 Ralph Rainger (composer)
 Leo Robin (lyricist)