Around 23 years ago, I saw you through a picture. Your big brown eyes and perfect tan skin were stunning against the evergreen trees and snow in front of those majestic mountains. It was just a picture, but it took my breath away. I gasped in disbelief that this beautiful man living in Colorado thought I was his person. Somehow, someway, I would make my way to you. It took us two months of long nights chatting on the phone, constantly sighing and giggling at every thought to plan for me to fly to meet you. I would fly to CO on December 5, 1998, to meet you. The man I would fall in love with and marry. I knew it from the first hello. I didn’t expect we’d have a last goodbye shortly after turning 40.

You planned our first date to the T. Mexican food, billiards, and our first kiss would be on a small footbridge at the lake where we would get married one day. You were so embarrassed when you embraced me and kissed me after a celebratory pass on the video arcade machine. You kept saying it wasn’t supposed to be this way. You wanted to kiss me as the snow kissed my cheeks. It didn’t matter to me. I was just happy to have your kisses finally. I wanted those kisses for the rest of my life.

There was nothing better than snow. Taking the kids sledding was so much fun. We hiked through it. We even played with snowballs and snowmen. It was an incredibly fun winter wonderland. After all, we lived there for years. Snow was a time for happiness. It pained us to move away from it to find our new job in Arizona. However, you promised we would always find snow, no matter where we went.

We rented cabins. We always kissed in the snow. It was a tradition you never broke after that first failure. Snow was so magical. We squealed to see it every single time. I loved the snow since I fell in love with you in it. Snow angels had nothing on you at all. The last time we went was on our son’s sixth birthday. We drove up to Payson for the day. It was unplanned, but you promised that we would go back and huddle up in a cabin as we watched the snowfall one day. As we ran through snowbanks, we laughed. We threw snowballs. It was magic. It was like a fairytale, and I did not want it to end.

COVID took you before we got to see the snow again. The kids longed for the snow. Because they saw the snow, it made them think of you and make them happy. They wanted to be close to you too. To see you in the snow like I always do. This past weekend, we made it to the snow. I looked into the vast white blanket, and I shivered. You are with me as I sank my feet in and exhaled heavily. I let the tears fall. When I see snow, you are there. I cried in the snow that day.

I watched our boy play, and his cheeks went red. He laughed and smiled. I know he found you there too. Oh, how we miss you. The cold never bothered me until today, when I realized we would never have another snow together. I wish you were still with me, and in a way, you are. You live in through the memories, so I will smile even if I want to cry. I never lost you, even if it feels like sometimes I did. You live through every moment that takes my breath away. It reminds me that you once stood there. You live on in my heart, and I will never let those moments go.

My mother was a shopaholic. Sometimes I felt like she loved shopping more than family. She would give more space to those things in the house than us. But she was definitely good at it.

The last shopping trip I accompanied her on was to buy some necessities for myself and at the same time I bought her some clothes out of my own pocket which she blushed about so much, but wouldn’t show it on her face, because of the way she was. Instead she would keep that awkward shy face and told dad to give me my money back as she thought I will need it.

That day, while I was walking by the road, at the corner I stopped at a watch repairing place to buy a new battery for my old watch. I had used it for a very long time as it was so comfortable. She saw me changing that battery and still wearing that worn-out leather strap. She asked me if I wanted to change the strap with a new one which I refused.

A few months after that, I lost her due to COVID in May 2021 in the worst way I could have imagined. I regretted many things about the way she passed away. Some days after her leaving, my sister told me that my mother had bought a watch and kept it to give me when I visited her. When I opened it, I saw the same orange-brown shade of leather strap which was on the watch the day I changed the battery. She remembered the color which I liked and bought it though I didn’t ask.

I am moved by what she did, which she always did. SHE IS ALWAYS AHEAD IN KNOWING WHAT I NEED AND PROVIDING FOR ME WITHOUT BEING ASKED. SHE LOVES MADLY, REALLY MADLY. SHE PUT ME BEFORE HER NEEDS LIKE AN IDIOT. She is a fool in love.

I miss her and I still can’t believe she is no more to call me and say the only two things she knew to remind me of: “Did you take calcium tablet? Are you drinking grape juice?” which she believed would give me strength and health. I hope I loved her back enough.

This remembrance of The Very Rev. Antonio Checo is an edited collage, composed of thoughts from St. Mark’s parishioners and Father Spencer Reece.
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Our loved ones had sayings — phrases or maxims we might remember and repeat in moments of self-doubt, or surprise, or when we wake from bad dreams, wondering who could understand the strange landscape we just exited. Father Antonio Checo, who left us on April 1, 2020 due to Covid-19, had several pet phrases, “Checoisms,” which are reflective of his kind countenance, empathetic soul, and devotion to God and his parishioners: “He was a good man,” Father would say, “Let your tears come out,” and “At the end what matters is the relationship one has with God.”

Well, Father Antonio Checo was himself a good man, one who spent his life helping others. Born in Santiago, the Dominican Republic on May 6, 1952, he earned a bachelor’s degree in social work there before moving to New York City in 1982. He earned a master’s in social work from Fordham University and then put his experience to use by working for the New York Department of Social Services for 18 years as a caseworker, social worker, supervisor, and director of Foster Care and Preventative Services.

In 2001, Father Checo joined the Red Cross and worked for the 9/11 Recovery Program. While helping New York heal, he began his seminary studies at the General Theological Seminary in Manhattan, earning a Master’s Degree in 2006. In 2007, he was ordained a deacon, and then a priest in the Episcopal Diocese of Long Island, serving in different capacities before he became a part-time priest in charge of St. Mark’s and then our fourth full-time rector.

Father Checo’s years of social work informed his ministry. And, he revived St. Mark’s. Our parishioner, Liz Brennan, feels that he “was St. Mark’s savior. He had been with us through some very dark days when the very existence of our parish was in question. He came among us as our Priest in Charge, not with any grand, complex plan of redemption. His philosophy was simple: to be hospitable, welcoming, and open to all.”

And indeed, St. Mark’s is a most diverse church. Many of our parishioners are immigrants from Africa, Central and South America, the West Indies, and the Philippines. Father Checo enlarged the church’s food pantry, emphasizing the foods of our parishioners’ cultures. He conducted two Sunday Services, one in English, one in Spanish. He tended to the sick and dying, settled arguments, and counseled on how to navigate through city bureaucracy. Father Checo was the “good man” who Liz Brennan remembers did the “dirty work,” both literally and metaphorically, whether that meant setting boundaries or “plunging a church toilet.”

But in the midst of all these large issues, Father Checo also understood the importance of small moments of beauty and connection. Jennifer Florez treasures the memory of the “Godly Play” sleepovers. “He would play games with the children, pray over them, and then the Moms would sleep on the floor of the Parish Hall with their kids in a big messy pile of sleeping bags and stuffed animals. Always respectful of the children, Father slept on the floor in his office. He was usually the first one awake the next morning, and we would find him making coffee and getting breakfast started in the kitchen. My kids and I miss him so very much!”

Like Jennifer and Liz, the parishioners of St. Mark’s have “let their tears come out” at his passing. But now we are also able to smile a bit, as our intricate and joyous memories of Father Checo still enrich our lives and guide our viewpoints. He was an unforgettable friend and mentor, and his deeds and words will stay with us, like a repeated phrase that we say again and again, something our mothers and fathers whispered or shouted, that becomes part of who we are.

“He was a good man.”

“Let your tears come out.”

“At the end, what matters is the relationship one has with God.”

In 2020, at the start of the Lockdown in NYC, people took to applauding our essential workers at 7pm. This entailed people playing their trumpets, or hitting pots and pans, or just clapping outside their windows or on their balconies. We’d all seen similar images coming first from Italy — people singing to each other across the air, but the alleys below were empty. And now, we were doing this in New York, where the crawls at the bottom of our TV screens were dire amidst images of refrigerated trucks parked outside hospitals.

I live at Manhattan Plaza at 43rd Street, which is two high buildings, one on 9th Avenue and the other on 10th with a plaza in-between. Our residents are mostly actors, musicians, playwrights, seniors, etc. As the pandemic took hold, our buildings took part in the ritual. It was great to “connect” with my neighbors, many of whom I didn’t know, from 7-7:15pm every night.

Often our banging became music …

As time passed, less and less people continued the 7pm ritual, but I noticed that there were still people doing it outside, not just from windows, out on the Plaza. I decided to go down and join this group. We kept our distance, wore our masks, and banged away outside, come rain or shine.

Sometimes it was freezing and snowing but still we showed up. We called ourselves ‘The Social Distancenaires’ and ‘We Clap Because We Care’. We soon started to get to know each other and even began to party afterwards, celebrating each other’s birthdays and other milestones, etc. Most importantly, we got to know each other and keep tabs on one another. When one of us was in hospital (not for Covid) we took turns visiting and calling. When I did a show way downtown, most of them came to it!

It’s February 2022 now, two years later, but we persist, we show up. The building is doing construction on the Plaza so we’re constricted to one walkway yet we make it work. We’re all triple-vaxxed but still Omicron got me between Xmas and New Year’s and recently several of our group members also got it. Thankfully, none had to go to the hospital.

Because things like Broadway are opening up, it’s often hard for all of us to be there at 7 every night yet there’s somehow always a “minion” or close to one! Every night at 7 until 7:05 pm we bang and chant and sing and shout THANK YOU to all our Essential Workers.

Why we’re still clapping together is hard to say. Early on in the pandemic, I did lose two friends to Covid-19 and another is still with us but was terribly compromised, so, like many New Yorkers, this is personal for me. I feel like I’m clapping for the people who may have helped my friends. I think we are so thankful to all those around who never stopped working and sacrificed their own safety during the pandemic, whether they’re doctors or nurses or food delivery or maintenance … Where would we all be without them? Where would we be?

We welcome our newest grandchild, Thomas Alexander.

I say “we” because I like to think my husband Mike is somewhere, seeing over his ever expanding family. Mike passed April 14, 2020 from Covid and in that time he has missed the birth of four grandchildren. The other three were so young that they wouldn’t even remember him. Mike would bore the hell out of anyone who he stopped to show beautiful pictures of his grandchildren. They are all going to grow up missing someone very special.