He shuffles into the kitchen wearing his blue scruffy bathrobe. “Felicie, who sleeps with cats?” I roll my eyes, “Who Dad?” Him: “Mrs. Cats of course” he giggles and walks out of the kitchen. He must have told me that joke once a week for my whole life.

We were 13 months apart. I only knew a year of life before he was born but I have no recollection of it. My earliest memories all involve him. My future plans and goals involved him. I’d never thought of life without Rami. I was the older one but people often thought we were twins. We had this bond where we knew we were there for each other and more importantly we knew we loved each other. Rami was amazing — no matter what our circumstances were, (there had been times our family struggled), Rami could find ways to make the best of things.

When he passed away, I didn’t understand. How could I lose my baby brother? This isn’t the order of the way things go. His pale lifeless body laying there, my mother cradling him as she cried out, “my baby, my baby,” over and over again. How? Why? What happened? It was the last time I’d see him. The last memory.

We could not hold a funeral because it was the peak of the pandemic but I spent the next months writing to senators, attempting to begin investigations into Rami’s death. I also walked the beach daily, finding solace in the ocean, picking up shells. Soon, Rami’s 41st birthday was approaching. I needed to do something as I’d never known a time where we hadn’t said “Happy Birthday” to each other. Death could not stop me. He might not have been here anymore but I knew he was watching. I also needed to bring my mom a form of peace as a part of her had died with him.

I decided I was going to make a yellow heart on the sand, composed of the clam shells I’d been collecting, surrounding it with enough candles that my brother could see it from heaven. The yellow heart symbol for those lost was started by David Gompertz and his family. His wife died of Covid in 2020 and he wanted to tie a yellow ribbon on his tree as a way to honor her. However, because of lockdown he was not able to go buy yellow ribbon so his family decided to put yellow hearts in their windows. Shortly after, they started the Yellow Hearts to Remember Facebook page and it went viral.

I liked their idea, and had found support through their page as well as the inspiration for the clam shell heart, but how to personalize it? At first, I thought of writing on the shells but my mom suggested placing a pebble inside the heart with his name. I liked the idea but in order to fill the heart we needed more than one pebble. I went on social media and announced I’d be lighting the heart on my brother’s birthday & I invited others to come add their loved ones names. That night about 25 people showed and approximately 120 names were placed. My partner Travis helped me light more than 200 candles. A mom and her daughter said a prayer and John Walsh sang “Danny Boy.” Unknown to him, it was my grandmother’s favorite song.

My mom cried. She cried in a good way, a way we cry at a funeral, a way we cry when grieving, a way we cry when we need to release our sadness, a way we cry when our love overwhelms us. Travis and I cried as well. We walked away that night thinking we’d be back the next day to clean it up. I went to bed peaceful that evening for the first time in a long time. I had given my mom a space to say goodbye. I gave her place to grieve. Little did I know the world was also waiting, just like us, for a place to grieve and gather with strangers who understood and let their tears release their grief too.

The next morning, images of the lit heart began to go viral. Little by little and day by day, the heart became 12 hearts bearing over 3500 names. How could we stop when we knew the need for this space?

That’s how it all began … and now what was once clamshells and rocks on a beach has become the first permanent national Covid-19 memorial known as Rami’s Heart. People tell me I’m a hero, but I’m not. I’m just a sister that loves her brother beyond measure and I won’t allow his death to take that away. No matter how horrible it was. the world will know of him.

We are celebrating Christmas without you for the second time this year. My therapist told me that I treat it very much like the first. My therapist said that I get to choose what I want to do. Right now, making decisions is the hardest part of my life. We didn’t move our right hand for twenty-three years without the other one knowing. Now it’s just me. I am calling all the shots. I didn’t ask for this.

I kept asking the kids what we should make for Noche Buena and Christmas Day. I wasn’t surprised to get the response of should shrugs, and I dunno. I put my head into my hands and sobbed. I don’t want to do this. Can’t I sleep until it is January 2nd? Why isn’t that an option? As tears as big as diamonds dropped down my cheeks, I heard you say, “Make them anyway.”

What to make? We loved pizza, calzones, ham, turkey; you name it, we made it. Every year was a different cuisine. As I looked in my Facebook memories, I felt my heart say, as I stared at that dreaded picture, tamales. I am a midwestern girl. Before I met you, I didn’t know what a tamale was. I even remember asking if I ate the husk. I flashbacked to the memories of feeding you raw tamales and our long conversations over them. No way, it’s not happening. Not at least this year.

One day later, it kept chipping away at me. Make the tamales. I don’t have a steamer. I honestly can’t remember how to do them. Can’t I buy some and call it a day. Finally, after a temper tantrum in the shower, I got onto instacart and ordered the things to make tamales. I can always freeze the stuff if I can’t do it, I thought as I put the dishes away.

Last night, I sat at the table, everything spread out. After looking at the first husk, I decided, “I’m gonna do that.” Tears streamed down my cheeks. Both boys saw me and offered their support. Their help this time was much appreciated. It was hard to let go, but I must carry on this tradition. We sat at that table and talked about you. We remembered how you laughed, how you ate so many you would swear we would never make them again. I looked at my boys, and I felt you with us. I didn’t want that day to end.

It was hard at first, but I am glad we made the tamales. They were your traditions, and I intend to continue them. Even if it is hard, make them anyway. It’s the little things that matter.

We lost our father, Andrew Gigante, 78, of Old Bridge, New Jersey on Monday, December 28, 2020.

My father was born in Molfetta, Italy to the late Lazzaro and Francesca Gigante. He immigrated to the United States at the age of 10. Our family lived in Hoboken, eventually moving to Bayonne where my dad met and married Joanne Mulewski, the love of his life. They started their own family and moved to Old Bridge which was home for the past 49 years.

My father was a self employed plumber; he owned Andrew Gigante Plumbing and Heating. He was a member and former president of the Sicilian Citizens Club in Bayonne, and a lifetime member and former president of the Cheesequake First Aid Squad. He was named Man of the Year by the Sicilian club for all of his contributions and community involvement with the Bayonne community.

In his spare time he loved to be out on the water fishing. He would love to come home from a day on the Sea Fox or Paramount and show us all the fish he’d caught that day. Afterwards, he would cook us up the fish for dinner. He also enjoyed spending time in his home garden. Every year that he would expand his garden we would joke around with him, laughing that his back yard would soon become a farm.

My mother, his beloved wife of 52 years, his loving children, and his cherished grandchildren, all miss him deeply.

I take a few deep, slow breaths on the drive to work, preparing to face the good people and play-act as my old self. From behind their masks they will say, “Good morning,” and I will add the letter “u” to my reply in my own private little joke: “Good mourning!”

In this solitude, I think of you on the other side of the world, buried in paradise, where the leaves never brown and snow never falls. Did you know that your second family gave a Mass for you? I watched a video clip of it, and it was lovely, but the service was in a language that neither of us understands.

I would have liked to have held my own service here, where I would have served the baked mostaccioli, Italian beef, and deep dish that you craved. I would have eulogized you. I’m not sure exactly what I would have said, but I think I might have poked fun at the black dress socks, gym shoes, and short-shorts that made up your weekend uniform. And I might have described what a passionate hobbyist you were, giving your full heart to each new interest, from crossword puzzles to autograph hunting to big band music. I might have shared how some of my warmest childhood memories involved hanging around you while you shaved, watching your slow, careful movements while we talked about matters small and large.

I look for any piece of you in this city you loved, but nothing easy comes to mind. My imagination wanders to some small, forgotten corner of the courthouse where you worked, where a molecule of yours might lie, sleeping, waiting for an agitating broom to release it to space.