I decided to go to college at the age of 26 and was accepted to Keene State College. Mom and I drove up to Keene from Connecticut to look for an apartment. We stayed in a hotel in town and I remember her finding me sleeping in the bathtub in the middle of the night and she started laughing and laughing and asked me why I was there. I told her she snored so loud I couldn’t sleep. We both erupted in laughter. We always told that story to others over the years.

Today, March 25, 2020 was the last day I would see Mike alive. He went into the hospital and never came home. Even after three years I still can’t comprehend how this happened.

Warnings about the dangers of Covid leading to massive deaths were purposefully delayed in our country due to political reasons in February and March 2020. How could they wait that long to warn us, especially since many super spreaders of Covid were asymptomatic?

My brother Johnny entered short term rehab in a nursing home in early March of 2020. If I had known what was covered up I would have transferred him home. He was a real helper and protector. I remember all that he did to help our grandparents when they lived with us and their health was failing. He was a huge helper for our father and mother with all their medical issues. I always helped my brother but his facility was closed to visitors shortly after he arrived in rehab. Where were the helpers and protectors for Johnny and all the others? Some were there but it was too late. We needed more helpers and protectors proactively. This is very sad and tragic for so many, knowing that it did not have to be this way.

I will forever remember her hugs. I don’t like hugs, yet she would always hold on for a few seconds too long. I treasured her warm embrace even then. She would wake me with the smell of bacon on Saturdays, surprise me with toast and gravy. Her cooking and endless generosity was a staple for her home and her radiance.

When I got a puppy, she would bring him inside the house despite my Pa’s wishes so he could lick my face to wake me in the school mornings when I stayed over. She would laugh when I would giggle. She taught me to sew, to love, and to forgive. We made quilts together, and she would frequently take me shopping when I mentioned something I had been thinking about getting.

She was fierce, she was kind. Her love ran deep and was felt by all, and she was the gem of our family. Our matriarch. She defended me when no one else would. She listened to me, loved me, and showed me what it meant to love someone.

Sometimes it feels like she’s just out of reach. Like she’s just in the other room when I visit her home — renamed from Mamaw and Pa’s to Pa’s. It feels like I could call her, but she’s busy right now so I must wait. On days when I miss her horribly, I sleep with the quilt she made me when I was very young. Her special chair sits in the den, moved from the living room.

We shared our final words to each other over the phone, whether we knew they would be the last or not, in the ICU. Her voice was faint and weak. We cried together, and she apologized that she wouldn’t be able to see my dorm once I moved in. She asked me if I had a ride to the hair appointment she made me; I had to get my bangs trimmed.

I told her to focus on feeling better, that she would see my dorm soon enough. That it was going to be dirty for the first few weeks anyways, that she had plenty of time. I had it figured out for now. I told her I loved her more than words. She knew.

I hear her laugh, see her smile. Feel her warmth and her loving gaze, just out of reach. I hope to see her first whenever I join her, wherever she may be.

I am realizing that there is no worst time. Day or night. I am constantly thinking of you Donovan and I am constantly yearning to be able to change everything. To change something to turn back time. To have you back alive. My son. Alive.

Our lives are completely different now. My life is shattered. I am jealous of other parents who can think of their children who have died and smile at the memories. I am not there yet. I yell into the void I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU DIDN’T SURVIVE COVID!!!! Our new reality sucks. Saying I miss you is just not enough. I love you Donovan. – Mom