Who is that woman sitting alone on the beach?
She looks so sad and distant and even out of reach.
Why is she sitting there all alone?
She won’t look up, she just keeps looking at her phone.
The waves are crashing methodically in the background,
Yet she doesn’t move or make a sound.
Is she okay?
It’s a beautiful day.
Do I approach her? She looks so sad.
What could have happened that was so bad?
I am that woman sitting alone on the beach.
I am in such despair and, yes, even out of reach.
My heart is shattered.
My mind is scattered.
I am filled with sadness and grief.
I lost both parents to Covid and I’m still in disbelief.
I’m looking at their pictures on my phone,
Talking to them, wishing I wasn’t alone,
Telling them I miss them every second of every day,
And asking if I’ll ever be okay.

by Belinda Trevino, in memory of her wonderful parents:
Mike Rivera
8/30/41 – 1/7/21
Mary Rivera
12/24/41 – 12/12/20

I just realized that when I do laundry, I still use my side for the hanging clothes and use my half of the baskets. I still sleep on my side of the bed. I miss the other half of me, my love. It’s been 9 months now …

I never went to a bar alone until that night in July. Dave Posmontier
was playing piano at the tiny wine bar on the other side of town. I decided to wear my white dress and pulled my long hair back with clips. Called my friend to tell her that I was trying to be brave, that I wanted to hear this jazz artist. Called the bar and talked to a reassuring bartender. He said, “This isn’t a meat market. I will be here if you need me.” I wish I remembered his name. Russ was standing at the end of the bar, his fingers moving non-stop in that fidgety rhythm I would come to know. He could not be still. Another woman sat beside me. The only two women at the bar. When I finally decided to move closer to watch Posmontier play, she said she would save my seat. I swear I was not sure if it was the piano, or Russ I wanted to move toward. After 34 years together, I figured it out.

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