My Dad knew how much I loved doing The NYTimes Sunday crossword puzzle at his house, always in ink. Every time I visited, there was sure to be a pile of the Sunday NYT magazine section. On the crossword page he always wrote something … like “Love, Dad” … or “Baby Carol.”

After he died, I didn’t think I would ever do it again, that it would be too painful. But then I realized that he would not want me to give up something I loved because of him. So I do the puzzle every day and think about him the whole time. I love you Dad and miss you so much.

I lost my beautiful, strong mommy on 2/17/21 to COVID-19. She was my best friend in the whole wide world. I’m completely lost without her. She was the best mother and grandmother in the world. Nothing is the same anymore.

She used to call us (my kids & me) every birthday and sing to us in her own special way. She loved holidays and now we never feel like celebrating. We miss her more than anything in this world.

Michael would say: “I got another atta boy today.” So silly since I am doing a job I love. Nurse.

My father loved crossword puzzles. When I came into my parents’ apartment, I had to see not only his handwriting but also the last crossword puzzle he had filled out — the phrases that he had written (his unique handwriting) — I was also grasping for straws. I needed to be the closest I would ever get to goodbye, to his last words that I never had …

What I saw stunned me!

The last thing that he had written was actually a motto, a maxim, a saying that was completed from individual letters assigned to numbers scattered throughout the completed crossword puzzle. It read: “With Bravery Stands Happiness”

… his last words that I needed, written by him, by his hand and left now to me …

Two years ago, on February 8th, I got the call your fight was over. I already knew. The pain I felt as I collapsed to the floor just before my phone rang told me you were gone. Even in death, our bond was one I wasn’t letting go of without a fight. They told me “now I could see you” but also told me “only for a few minutes” as your body was still contagious.

Little did they know I came fully prepared to finally be able to tuck you in to bed after 22 days apart — one last time. It’s not our happiest memory but being able to do that for you once more is one I’ll treasure forever. I just hope you knew …

May we meet again. I love you, Daddy!