Our story began on a cold night in Toms River in 1992. I was a member of the SCA (Society for Creative Anachronisms) and I heard that one of the households held fighter practice on Wednesday night at the Bus Parking Lot downtown so I decided to go with a friend. There was a guy there with his foot in a cast, chatting away with a group. He was tall, had brown hair but when he looked at me, I saw the most beautiful set of blue eyes. I was hooked. He smiled at me and I walked over to talk to him. He was charming but there was something about him that made me feel incredible. It took another year before we would share our first kiss at Lakewood Renaissance Fair and another five years before we got married in 1998. I will always remember his eyes because they would twinkle when he laughed and I could get lost in them easily. He was my soulmate and a true knight in shining armor. Now he wears the armor of angels in heaven but I know he is watching over our family; always vigilant and protective. Rest in Peace, my love.

My bother Barry loved to sit in the sun with his shirt off. We lived in a upper middle class neighborhood but he didn’t care, he would just sit in the sun sometimes on our front lawn. He loved the trees and the plants. He loved to swim in the ocean. His heart and soul belonged to nature. He grew up in the 60’s and 70’s he didn’t care much for rules.

As much as I loved that about him his philosophy didn’t always work in his favor. He didn’t care about a lot of things. One of those things was the severity of Covid. He didn’t wear a mask. He didn’t social distance. He went to AC at the height of the pandemic in vaccinated and he got Covid. He wasn’t in the best health begin with. Then he died. Covid took hold of his lungs and wouldn’t let go.

Rest In Peace my hippie bro, the sun and the trees will miss you I’m sure.

My sister Eileen had the most beautiful eyes. They were golden. Her eyes illuminated when you spoke to her, it was really amazing. Not only were her eyes gold her heart was too. She was special needs. She didn’t drive, or have many friends, she decorated her room with unicorns and rainbows at age 40. Her life was simple, she loved chocolate and anything mystical. Talking to her was like talking to a 10 year old. She was pure good. She would even give portion of her paycheck to St. Jude every holiday season.

My parents, me and my brothers fiercely protected her. She could have easily gone on disability but she choose not to. Despite all her challenges she had a job in a nursing home doing laundry for 20 years. It was a shitty gross job no one wanted. But she did it with pride. She would bring blankets to the sick and elderly. She had a purpose. She was happy.

The last Thursday in September 2011 my sweet wonderful Dad went to pick her up from work. As he did everyday because she didn’t drive. It was more important for her to have a purpose in life than the inconvenience of him driving her. He was a wonderful man and a caring and thoughtful father. While they were driving home they were hit by a massive handicap van. There was no time for my dad to switch lanes. They both died.

Not a day goes by that I don’t miss them both. The heavens gained two beautiful golden angels that day.

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.