Well, here it is —
My Birthday:
What I would have given to hear you say
Happy Birthday Sara, then go on to say
It’s 44 years today since I was in Kuwait, when I had a telegram to tell me you had been born, and in the evening I went out to celebrate with my work mates and some locals, we had non-alcoholic champagne as alcohol was banned, some people didn’t know it was non-alcoholic and got a little merry
(we still got the metal bit that was on the cork to this day) …

You named me Sara Lea after the chocolate gateau you lived off,
And shams, which means sun in the sky & also the name of the wife of one of the locals you became friendly with —
Your friends nicknamed me Sara Malaccam (especially Bobby)
Malaccam means hello how are you (hope I’ve spelt it right)

You didn’t get to see me until you came home on the 13th —
Which that date seems funny now, as a year later on the 13th your only son Kenneth was born, after having 3 girls …

I love you dad,
Miss you dearly,
All my love,
Always and Forever XX

Donovan’s death anniversary came and went. 9/29. Me and my husband (Donovan’s stepdad) released butterflies in our backyard. My daughter and best friend were with us via video.

I didn’t want the day to truly come and go, but it was not a celebration, like so many other death day anniversaries I have watched. I didn’t know what I was expecting — some type of closure? Some type of release of guilt or the inability to accept that my son is dead?

I felt none of those things. Covid stole my son from me. Covid stole my husband’s stepson. Covid stole my daughter’s brother. I yearn to be able to think of my son and have happy, funny, loving memories pop into my mind. Because I was one of the lucky ones — I was able to be with my son before he was intubated, before Covid ravaged his body, but those last moments are what pop up in my mind when I think of him.

Baby, I am trying to not replay those last days. I miss you so much. My heart aches. I love you, baby boy. xoxo, Mom

Coming from a large family with modest financial means, most holidays growing up seemed to resemble the Griswold’s — chaotic with five young children crammed into the back of the “uncool” family station wagon, luggage perilously strapped to the roof. Down the interstate we drove from New Jersey to South Carolina, an excruciatingly long journey only to be made even longer as a slightly distracted Mike Mantell drank in the bucolic landscape. “Dad, watch the road!” We screamed as his eyes lingered on another corn field.

My father was an aimless wanderer by nature and an avid history reader. Little did us girls know that our beach/pool holiday was actually a historical sightseeing trip in disguise. My father was in his glory in Charleston. He slowly ambled through the cobblestone streets of the city, admiring the pastel-colored, pre-Civil War houses, stopping to read every historical inscription he fell upon. He didn’t seem to heed much attention to the whines of his impatient daughters who were itching to get back to the pool. “Dad, move … hurry up. We are bored” we fruitlessly shouted from far ahead.

Instead my father happily dragged us on tours of Fort Sumter and the sugar plantations in the sweltering southern heat. Of course there was a bit of tactful bribery on his part to get us to behave so he could actually enjoy it. An ice cream for one, a Confederate hat and toy rifle for another and a promise for unlimited pool time the next day.

When his part of the holiday ended, my father readily embraced family beach time; ocean kayaking over a shark infested pit to simply relaxing on a sun lounger with his latest book. Nothing could possibly dampen the genuine merriment of the holiday even if it did end with an encounter with a sting ray. As my father stepped on the unassuming sea creature near the ocean’s edge, he let out a loud, unmanly yelp. Unfortunately, his cries for help were met by uncontrollable giggles from his unsympathetic daughters.

Now looking back, I have come to realize that my father possessed an uncanny gift. He had an innate stillness that allowed him to disentangle himself from the madness of society. My father didn’t need a phone or camera to capture what he did on holiday like most rushed tourists who are afraid of missing out. Instead, he carefully wandered, gazing at the mundane to magnificent. As I pass through rolling hills in the English countryside or simply a field of corn, I find myself looking through the lens of my father’s eyes and smile for in that brief moment I can see the beauty in the ordinary just as he taught me so many years ago.

The day my brother Joe married his wife Allison, he decided it would be cool to hop on his motorcycle for a couple of professional pics in his tux. So he took off down the street in front of the house where we grew up. Unfortunately he skidded out on some wet leaves and he and the bike took a fall, shredding part of his pant leg and giving him some awful road rash.

My parents and his groomsmen helped clean him up and put him back together in time for the church ceremony. He walked down the aisle and waited for his beautiful, unknowing bride. Not realizing the videographer’s microphones would pick up his whispers on the altar, he quietly explained to Allison that he might need to visit the emergency room at some point that day.

Joe ended up braving through the day, even dancing and having a great time at the reception. But afterward, instead of spending their wedding night at a luxurious hotel, Allison and Joe went to the ER to get his leg stitched and wrapped. And went on to spend much of their Aruba honeymoon in a wheelchair! My brother was always a wild one but with the softest heart. He is so loved and missed by all of us.

You would always say you were our
Wind up clock
In a digital world
XXXX