My grandpa, Cal Schoenfeld, was everything to me. He was born in Brooklyn, New York on November 29, 1936 and found his adoration for art at a young age.

He went to school to become an artist and spent his younger years working to fulfill his dream. This passion for art is one he bestowed to me and was a special part of our relationship. We shared a love for three things: art, stories, and New York City — where he often proudly reminded us he was from.

Every year, my family and I planned a trip into the city with him, and in 2020 he was most excited about the idea of an excursion over the Brooklyn Bridge, one of his favorite landmarks, an iconic gateway to and from his home borough.

Unfortunately, he passed away due to Covid-19 in May 2020 before our adventure could happen. His passing inspired two things: Faces of Covid victims, which is an international art project I created, dedicated to memorializing loved ones lost to Covid-19 through art, and the annual Covid March to Remember over the Brooklyn Bridge. Both are done with a massive community strung together by love, empathy, grief, art, and the sharing of stories — something I know he would have loved.

I miss my grandpa every day, but I know he’s so, so proud of what has been accomplished because of him.

The light from the stove gave off a slight orange glow to the kitchen this morning, and the wall clock made a ticking sound each time the hands moved. Like so many times before I sat there, so familiar, the quiet, the kind of quiet that happens when everyone is at rest. When the day-to-day life is put on hold to take a break from real life.

It was 6:30 and my head was still in the sleep fog. I closed my eyes and waited, listening to the tick, tick, tick of that stupid clock. He was supposed to be tapping on the window by then, to let me know he was there. The tap that happened right before the door handle would turn and the door, fighting the suction of the humidity made a frup sound as it opened. Suddenly the August heat would rush in from outside.

Instead, the only sound I heard was the half sob, half sigh that emanated from the knot in my stomach and the ache in my heart. Dad wasn’t coming. He wouldn’t be sticking his head in the door whispering, so not to wake anyone, “are you ready?” His eyes fresh and a huge smile across his face. He loved those morning walks.

It was time. I had to go, or I’d miss the sunrise. There was a slight breeze off the ocean, and I swear I caught a faint whiff of Dad’s after-shave. The birds were waking up and the stars were twinkling but beginning to fade.

By now I should be trying to keep up with Dad. He had such a smooth, confident gait when he walked. His arms swung at his side in rhythm with his steps, hands relaxed and open. The sunrise would color the sky in beautiful oranges, reds, and pinks making the perfect backdrop for Dad’s silhouette. The wind would brush his thinning hair and the wisps would dance on the breeze. There was a calmness of his spirit here that the sea birds all felt. To them he belonged, and they shared the beach with him without reservation.

But he wasn’t there. I walked where his footprints should have been, in the sand just at the water’s edge. The waves were lapping the shore as the tide came in. The birds were calling as the sun rose, as if to ask, “where’s Al?”. He’s gone. He won’t be tossing seedpods my way, if I get distracted by seashells.

As I finished Dad’s walk, I realized somewhere under that sand are forty years of his steps. His energy and presence left behind. It’s still here, but he is not. Others had arrived at the beach by then, totally oblivious to the fact someone was missing. They didn’t care that he was supposed to be there. My steps were slower heading back to the unit. Tears trickling down my cheeks as I glanced back to the ocean and beach my dad loved. Hoping against hope that he’d be there, ready to walk back with me. For all the times I slept in, or looked for seashells, I’d give anything for a do-over so I could walk with Dad on that beach at sunrise.

As teenagers my brother and I enjoyed reading novels and I remember when we studied Thorton Wilder in class. I found books by this author, and many more, in Johnny’s room after he passed.

I reviewed Wilder’s line in “The Bridge of San Luis Rey” which says “there is a land of the living and a land of the dead, and the bridge is love, the only survival, the only meaning.” I felt that Johnny was talking to me. We also learned in that awesome class that there was another symbolic bridge that connects where humanity began and where it might go. We must work to make life better for those who come after.

Donovan would say “call me,” but “call me” really meant video me.

I miss my daily video calls with you, babyboy. #forever31

I cannot fathom living this way anymore

One moment I am semi okay and then reality hits that Donovan died from Covid. He is never coming back. He was a young man — 31 years old. A healthy young man. (This happens multiple times a day)

I see posts and messages and news on the tv and hear it on the radio- ‘it’s just a cold’, ‘it only affects 1%’, ‘Covid isn’t real’, ‘you can’t make me wear a mask’, ‘masks don’t work’, ‘my body, my choice’, ‘go ahead and live in fear — I’m going to live my life’, ‘No I’m not going get poked, I don’t know what’s in it’ and so many more — it’s heartbreaking. All of it tears me apart.

Donovan was my first born. Donovan came into this world a month earlier then his due date. He looked like a little baby bird. Then, two weeks later he was my little Michelin baby. He was so very chunky and beautiful.

21 days after he received the Covid positive test result, I would have to make the most devastating, heart-wrenching decision. Turn off the ventilator, he is not going to get better. His skin turned grey the moment the air was stopped, 3 minutes later his heart stopped. No last breath — he took that alone in the hospital before they placed him on the ventilator.

I have been told that stopping the vent was the most precious gift I could have given my son. I find it difficult to feel this way. Is that selfish? Selfishly yearning to be able to have him alive even though he would have been brain dead, always needing machines to stay alive? He would be here and I would take care of him.

Heartbroken forever,
Donovan’s mom
#forever31