“Father and Son” by Cat Stevens. A song I’ve always loved, as well as my late great father. Sitting on the boat as we sailed around the world, I contracted dengue. Sicker than heck, dad gave me some of his precious ice cream (boat in the middle of nowhere) and we were listening to music. Out comes “Father and Son.” On that day, nearly 20 years ago, he told me about how he’d found out his father passed at work and that the CD happened to be playing that song when he got into the car to get home. He played it on repeat for the whole 40 minutes home. I knew at that point, that would be his song too.

I never in my life thought I’d have to play it so soon, watching him depart on his eternal sail via a video call from my sister in the ICU room halfway around the world (Dad in North Carolina, my wife and I in Phuket, Thailand). Within a few seconds of his passing, beyond the normal emotional explosion of ?!?!, I turned the boat radio on as loud as possible (working on a boat at that time in a marina) and played “Father and Son.” I got to do that for him. I needed to do that for me even more I think.

I didn’t care about the boats and people next to me and the disturbances I made–Smashing a wooden paddle against the boat. The anger. The feeling of inexplicable pain. Luckily everyone left me alone, my wife came running from the house down the road to be there, just missing my dad’s passing, unfortunately. She was like a daughter to him, and vice-versa.

As dad’s ashes sit in a plastic urn (he didn’t want anything fancy, cheap Charlie) covered in photos, in North Carolina, at my sister’s house, I am getting ready to sail with my wife from Spain to the Caribbean to release my father to the sea to be with my mom, and finally have closure since the 26th of January 2021.

The boat is only possible due to my dad and being fortunate. Best part is, the boat is named ‘Dawdle’ — a word Dad would always use. It’s like he is here.

Best part is, just before purchasing it, we saw the signs from Dad … yellow heart in the sunrise that morning and a yellow butterfly flying around me, my wife, and our new home (the boat).

To honor the fallen and the grieving, I have placed 4 yellow hearts on the bottom of the boat, and other yellow hearts around the boat. There will be flags flying them and on the sails in the near future.

We are yellow hearts. They are more than a number. And we are not alone!

I miss you dad.

Father and Son. Thank you for that song, Cat Stevens.

One of Winston Churchill’s famous quotes was “If you are going through hell, keep going.” My husband Mike was a follower of Winston Churchill, the statesman who led his country through the most difficult times during WWII. Mike read everything about him and when we made our first trip to London we had to buy a cheap ceramic coffee mug of Winston Churchill to bring home.

I picked this quote because 20 years ago Mike was diagnosed with leukemia. He went through hell. But keep going. He was in Memorial Sloan Kettering Hospital for 8 weeks but he survived. And only to have Covid take him from us. And now, to have people say, “Didn’t he have an underlying issue?”

My beloved aunt passed away during Covid, but did not pass from Covid. This was all as it was just beginning and there were no vaccines and little was known about the new virus. For three years, I’ve been grappling with the fact that the pandemic took away the chance for me to say a proper goodbye.

She was already ill when we first starting hearing about Covid and its rapid spread. She was well cared for in her home, so that was very comforting. I wanted to go see her, but I was afraid. What if I unwittingly brought the virus into her home? What if one of the caregivers was contagious and passed it on to me? I not only had to think of myself, but also my family at home, all of them at risk if I caught it. All of this was agony to sort through. By the time I decided that I would ask if we could meet at her glass door, it was too late. She was unable to leave her bedroom. Things progressed more quickly than expected and soon she was gone.

The funeral was postponed for a period of time, and I was very glad for that. However, when a Fall date was scheduled, the world still hadn’t made much progress in handling Covid. Schools were remote, people were working from home, and many businesses were still closed. I felt comfortable attending the burial outside, but knew family members would approach each other for hugs and conversations. A luncheon had also been planned for afterwards. An indoor event? During the pandemic? How is this a wise decision? I knew if I attended the burial that I would be pressured by family members to attend this indoor get together, therefore I had to stay away entirely. It was not what I wanted, but I knew this had to be my decision for the sake of my family’s safety. This decision has had ramifications. Several in my family have treated me differently ever since and this has hurt me deeply.

We hear a lot about “excess deaths,” the pandemic’s side hustle, as it gets noted on charts and graphs, but what doesn’t get acknowledged is all the excess grief associated with these deaths — the unexpressed sadness about aborted goodbyes, the lost final visits, the moments (like mine) at glass storm doors that never occurred. So, I have chosen not to move on from this loss but instead to honor my aunt by focusing my memories of her whenever I can. To this day, I talk to her often. I visualize her driving her giant car in the 1970s. She was so short and you could barely see her head above the steering wheel, even though she relied on a phone book to lift her up.

My aunt had fiery red hair until she let it go gray in her later years, but I always still saw her as a soaring, enthusiastic woman whose signature red locks seemed to embody her personality. She lived an amazing and long life, making it past 90 years old. And, I’m so glad that she lived that long so that my own children could get to know her. They now have Great Aunt stories that will travel with them throughout their lives. All of us treasure a memory at a popular seafood restaurant where we sat outside at the concrete tables eating fried fish and onion rings. While we were waiting for our food my aunt stood up, hummed a tune and danced with each of the kids right out in front of everyone. She was spontaneous and joyful at all times.

One afternoon a few weeks after she died, I was watching one of our Governor’s 5pm Covid update press conferences and I found myself speaking to her. I realized suddenly she is still here, in spirit, just a quick thought away. I’ve apologized for not being there at the end. I like to think that she would understand my decision. We were close and my aunt knew it would take something very big to keep me away from her. Nothing short of a global pandemic could have done so. She knows that I loved her dearly and she is still here to provide me with support and comfort (and a good chuckle as well) whenever needed. So, this is my goodbye. It may not have been done the traditional way, but I’ve resolved that it was the only way for the times we were living in. I’m okay with that now and it has provided me some necessary peace. To this day, I talk to her often.

I sat next to my friend Norma in the alto section of choir at Madam Russell UMC for 8 years. As choir friends do, we whispered during practice and shared fun times and frustrations. We would gift each other small homemade items. She would say to me, “Your mother is far away and I never had a daughter, only sons.”

She and her husband died in an early wave of COVID at a local nursing home. We never got to say goodbye. Hers was a senseless death fueled by misinformation and politics. I will never get over it.

Thanksgiving five years ago in 2017 was at my brother’s house. He was so happy to host us.

My brother did not have much, but the little he had, he shared. He didn’t have a table for all to sit around, but we all managed to sit together and eat, talk, listen to music and dance.

And photos, lots of photos. He loved taking pictures. It was a beautiful day. Those memories came up on my Facebook page today. It hurt looking at those memories. He was in those photos, of course, but so was my stepson, Alberto Locascio, who also passed from COVID on September 20, 2021. How I wish they were both here. We miss them both.

Today, the night before Thanksgiving 2022, I thank God for them and those memories. I am thankful for the time we spent together. Happy Thanksgiving to all of our angels in heaven.