I have been watching the Winter Olympics in Milan-Cortina on TV and I particularly love Speed Skating. It is one of the oldest and time-honored of sports in the history of the Olympics. It is my favorite sport to watch and always has been. My brother Johnny and I were amateur speed skaters and he also loved this sport as much as I did. We taught ourselves and somehow we managed to be pretty good at this sport. The winters were quite cold growing up on Long Island when we did, comparable to our present very cold winter in New Jersey. Long Island was surrounded by water so we could walk or get a ride to various lakes, ponds or bays. After we arrived, we would lace up our ice skates and get to racing each other and often had friends with us too. We were very close in age–only 14 months apart and we had no other siblings. Throughout our lives we had a great bond of love and support for each other. Covid-19 took my only sibling away from me so suddenly and unexpectedly like a thief in the night. I will always think of Johnny when I see skating.

I was walking by the Hilltop Diner the other day (yeah, I know they changed the name, but, for us, it will always be the Hilltop) and noticed that all the windows were papered over. I went around the corner to the entrance where I saw a small sign tucked into the door frame: “After 40 years, we’ve lost our lease. The rent is too damn high. Thanks for your patronage.” I sighed and the memories flooded in.

I’m sure you remember how Hilltop was our go-to place when we first met. If it was Friday evening, we could be found at Hilltop. The food was good and, more importantly, we were thrilled that the prices were affordable for two young guys just starting out. You always were partial to the Reuben sandwich and I usually went for a Monte Cristo because, as you soon found out, I don’t like sauerkraut. We washed everything down with a Doctor Pepper which you convinced me to try when I didn’t think there was anything beyond ginger ale.

You were adamant that we take the booth in the back, right next to the big picture window so we could watch the world pass by. This is the place where we really got to know each other. We shared our stories — the good and the bad — and dished the latest gossip and the mundane routines of our everyday lives. I’ll never forget how we laughed and laughed again. We grew comfortable with each other. We fell in love.

Since you left, when I’ve passed by Hilltop, I’ve often stared at my reflection in that big picture window, and wished that we could share just one more meal, to laugh again, to remember, to gaze out at a world that has changed so much. Now I worry that the places that help keep your memory alive in my heart are slowly disappearing. Time is such a thief.

It’s almost time for the Super Bowl. Spectators will be watching the game from all over the country, eagerly anticipating the match between the two teams. My dad would watch the Super Bowl, enjoying it with whatever beer was his favorite at the time. Of all the games I watched with my dad, there is only one I remember.

When I close my eyes to reflect on that day, I’m unsure if it was the big game, or just a random one. In the shadows of the memory, I know we are at my grandparents’ home. It’s an overcast winter day, the light slipping in from the window is softly moving with the trees outside. There’s a tv in the corner with a football game on and muffled voices from the kitchen drifting in. The smell of food is wafting through the doorway with the remembrance of the love that emanated there.

By that doorway, my dad is sitting in an overstuffed chair, my grandfather sits across the room from him. Beside dad is the Christmas tree my grandfather chose, with its top bent over, branches flattened against the ceiling, because it was too tall. Its boughs full of ornaments and large lights. Presents that were once wedged beneath the low-lying branches are now gone. The aroma from the tree is still pleasantly filling the space with the scent of pine. Other than the hum of the announcers’ voices, the room is quiet and still.

It’s one of those memories where you feel it, more than you remember it. You know it happened, but everything in your mind when you pull it up “feels” blurry. A fleeting moment that happened so ordinarily simple, routine. Nothing spectacular or extraordinary, just the way childhood is supposed to be. Something about that moment was more than that. It’s as if for a brief moment everything stopped. There was just me and dad. No work or school. No worries or football games.

I had climbed onto my dad’s lap, sitting there with my head against his shoulder. One of those moments you don’t even think about. He was watching the game and I was resting, tired from a busy morning. I don’t know whether he took my hand or I placed mine into his. Unconsciously Dad was gently pushing the tips of my fingers backwards and I was pushing his the other way. My fingers stretching a little farther each time, as far as they would go until they were bent straight back. Both of us surprised at how easily they moved backwards. Then the quiet moment was gone and the football game was the center of attention again. I doubt whether dad ever thought about it, it was just a normal afternoon. I really don’t know why it finds its way through the plethora of memories I have, to suddenly, stealthily say here I am. Forgotten, until I close my eyes, hearing my grandma in the kitchen with mom, grandpa and dad watching the game and seven-year-old me totally unaware of how precious and fleeting those tiny seconds in time are.

After my father died in March 2020, I was alone in my apartment for months with just my grief for company. I found myself drawn to re-watch all the seasons of “Schitt’s Creek” as a way to calm down and feel included in something that felt idyllic and was not the confusion of my dad dying from a virus that no one had heard of a few months before. And, he had loved the show too.

The final episode of Schitt’s aired in April 2020. I remember watching, very clearly sobbing at the sight of Moira Rose in her crazy ass white ice princess costume. Now, I see all the video clips folks are posting of Catherine O’Hara and my mourning feels renewed. For me, some of the most intense days of the pandemic’s darkness were made lighter due to her brilliant comedic portrayal of Moira. How awful that she is gone.

As I watch Walt, our blind Australian Shepherd play with his sisters in the yard, his leap over the snow drift reminds me of drifts from forty-eight years ago.

January 25, 1978, was on a Wednesday and the snow started in the afternoon. My memory has faded some but I’m guessing we went to school that day. I know Dad went to work at Detroit Diesel Allisons on the west side of Indianapolis. He worked the evening-night shift, and he would probably have had a ten-mile drive on the Interstate from home. By morning we already had 4 inches of snow and the winds were howling. My dad and a few of his co-workers, always ready to pick up a little extra cash, worked a few extra hours. They figured the storm wouldn’t be as severe as was being predicted, and if it was, they’d make some money with more overtime. By the time they found out there wasn’t going to be any, the opportunity to leave had closed. They hung around longer than they should have, ended up eating food from the breakroom and sleeping on tables. We hunkered down at home with movies and breakfast food for dinner comfort. Dad would call and talk to mom a few times a day. The winds during the blizzard reached 40 miles an hour and the snow drifts topped twenty feet high. Indianapolis was shut down for three days. Dad made it home, exactly how I’m not sure. Mom says she thinks one of his buddies drove him home in a truck. For some reason I always thought he rode home on a snowmobile. I can picture my dad on the back of a snowmobile with a helmet on, riding through the streets during a blizzard between twenty-foot-tall snow drifts. It’s something he would have done and loved every minute of it.

This year January 25 was on a Sunday. The snow started on Saturday afternoon and continued through Sunday night. We ended up with about sixteen inches of snow, but the wind gusts were a lot less than in 1978. A good snowstorm but not a blizzard. Dad retired in the 1990’s and would have stayed in with mom if he were able. Snuggled and warm watching old Humphrey Bogart or Audrey Hepburn movies. Sharing a blanket and eating popcorn. Or maybe we would have brought them to our house to weather the storm. I retired last year, we could have played Uno or Euchre, laughed and just enjoyed being together. All wishful thinking… The snow is still here. The dogs are still playing. Dad is still gone and my heart is still broken.