Today I have been reading many articles written about Kelsey Grammer’s new book, “Karen, A Brother Remembers.” The author blamed himself for not being able to protect his younger sibling who was murdered, even though it was not rational. He also states “he knows a lot of people who lost their siblings and blame themselves.” I can understand and relate to Mr. Grammer’s history of profound guilt and blame.

I also blame myself for my brother’s Covid death. He was my younger sibling and I always tried to protect him as the oldest. I tried during Covid to take him out of his rehab in his nursing home but it was very complicated since he was on IV antibiotics after surgery. It was so difficult to get IV home care for him around the clock as well as wound care. Did I not try hard enough to protect him? I started worrying about Covid at the end of January 2020 and understood how dangerous this could become. My brother was in the nursing home in mid March 2020 — the worst timing. As a Physical Therapist, I am always concerned about infection control in various facilities during normal times. Could I have done more to save my brother? I was a good advocate for him, but could I have been better? Did I choose the wrong nursing home for him? Can I ever let my guilt go away? I feel like I should have saved him. I am so sorry, Johnny …

When I was a child, in the early 1970s, I wasn’t a typical child. I was diagnosed with ADHD. My school felt I shouldn’t be seen or heard. Yet my mom advocated for me and eventually I was allowed in a classroom setting. Certain family members had little to no patience with me. They didn’t realize that I had trouble dealing with the world around me, but my mom defended me. Now, I didn’t get away with everything. My mom held me accountable and didn’t allow me to use ADHD as an excuse. Over time, my mom and I found ways to deal with my ADHD and I earned 2 Masters Degrees, but none of it happens without my mom giving me a foundation to stand on.

I love you mom … I miss you and I thank God for you.

These stanzas are drawn from a longer poem, titled “Park Slope Pastoral,” which is part of Lisa Smid’s forthcoming collection, “Twenty.”

If I can just get back to this field and the unhiding city
surrounding it, I can look for you in the air, I can find you in
the wind, I can feel you in the fluctuating heat.

I want not the guardian, the scribe, the recorder, the
preserver, the worker, the man of the city, the man of the
people, the hero. Not the officer and the gentleman, but the
kindred soul who walked the world with me, who smiled
without a face, who trekked the plains of his own living
dream song and kissed me at the right stop.

The hardest day of my life was when I called my 90-year-old mother to tell her that her son Johnny died of Covid on a ventilator. It was the day he originally was scheduled to come home from short term rehabilitation following surgery. I helped Johnny when he was in the hospital and in the rehab facility. There are no words for how heart wrenching this was for me to see my mother’s grief and despair. I had to be strong for her. Many rallied around my grieving mother and I was grateful. My grief was put aside and overlooked since I had to help my disabled mother who no longer had her caregiver, my brother. Johnny did not have a partner and I had so much to do to arrange everything one must do with the loss of a loved one. It was so challenging as it was the beginning of the Pandemic. So much was needed to be done to settle his affairs. It took a very long time to sort it all out.

Now my 95-year-old mother is in a nursing home and she has moderate dementia. She now thinks my brother is still alive. She asks me how he is doing and I carry out some benign fibbing. I go along with her that Johnny is still alive and well. I am relieved she does not suffer as she once did. Now, after 5 years, I feel like I can grieve without feeling guilty. I can start focusing more on myself. So much grief I delayed. I had to focus on my mother. She is still alive and at peace now. I am relieved. I now have to find my peace in all this. I hope I find it as I am trying. I believe I must really start this hard work.

With apologies to Jonathan Larson.

Two million six hundred twenty-eight thousand minutes
Two million six hundred twenty-eight thousand moments so dear
Two million six hundred twenty-eight thousand minutes
How do you measure, measure five years?

In daylights, in sunsets
In midnights, in cups of coffee
In inches, in miles
In laughter, in strife
In two million six hundred twenty-eight thousand minutes
How do you measure five years of life?

Another day and here I am still talking with your photograph hanging on the wall. I find it hard to believe that it’s five years since you took your last breath, a breath strangled by the ravages of COVID-19. It seems like it was just a moment ago, but the memories are seared into my soul.

When you left, life moved forward. But it has never been the same. I do the things we used to do together and with friends; but now I do them alone. I always bring you along though, there in my heart.

Did Sugar find you? She missed her Poppa so much when you were taken from us. She struggled, looking for you all around the apartment. Eventually, she developed cancer and I knew it was time for me to send her to you. I’m sure she’s happy to be reunited with you. I trust that Dash is with you too. I adopted him last year when he desperately needed someone to love and care for him in his final months. Loving him reminded me of how much you loved Quito and how you nursed her back to health when she was so abused. I’m sure he loves you as much as all our pets did.

I often wonder what your days are like now, wherever you are. Do you still get to watch Star Trek reruns? I hope you have met the loved ones of those with whom I have shared this journey of grief and recovery, the ones I have come to know and cherish here in this place. Do you all share your stories like we do?

I know you watch out for me. I sometimes wake at night and see your ethereal spirit standing by the bed just watching over me. It’s nice to know you are always close by. It warms my being.

I’m doing my best to keep your memory alive. It’s hard because our country has become cold and callous and ever willing to forget. But those of us who do survive, we work hard to let the country and the world know you mattered. Today, it’s five years. Tomorrow, it will be five years and one day. No length of time will keep us from remembering who we lost.