As I approach the third anniversary of my brother’s passing from COVID-19, I find it’s time to share another story about him—one more chapter to be recorded at Who We Lost.

Georgie died on February 16, 2022. He was my baby brother, nearly eleven years younger than me, and from the moment he was born, he was a force—a presence you couldn’t ignore. Doted on by his mother, grandmother, and two sisters, he was the center of our world. My father, though not one to dote, was proud to have a son and let Georgie get away with just about anything.

After my father passed away, our mother, Vee Vee, began splitting her time between her own home in Florida and her three children here in Rhode Island. As she aged and needed more care, she spent most of the week with Georgie and stayed with my sister or me on weekends. Georgie had been divorced for many years so he loved having someone in the house with him. He owned and ran three businesses, including Frenchy’s Popcorn which had originally been established in 1956 by my parents. He had a lot to say about all this and my mother was his audience and sidekick. She was a willing companion on business errands and dinners out. He would cajole her to work at Frenchy’s Popcorn even into her early 80’s.

At one point, Georgie expanded his business, adding an ice cream shop. He hosted a ’50s night on Thursdays, complete with a DJ and classic tunes, and he insisted that Vee Vee come along. And so, she did—holding court in the crowd and becoming somewhat of a celebrity guest.

Then, in late January 2022, everything changed. Georgie was hospitalized on January 29. I rushed from work to his house to get our mother and bring her to my home. By then, her memory was failing, and she asked me—constantly —what was happening. At first, despite how sick he was, we could still FaceTime with him but the noise of the BiPAP machine made it hard to talk. Then he worsened. ICU. Intubation. A devastating cascade of multi-system failure.

The unthinkable happened.

Despite my prayers, despite my desperate pleas to God not to take him, I watched my baby brother take his last breath—on Zoom.

And then I had to tell our mother.

She refused to attend his funeral. She has never wanted to visit his grave. And even now, in the assisted living facility where she resides, our conversations always return to the same haunting questions and in the same exact order:

“Did Georgie die?”
“When?”
“What happened?”
What about the Frenchy’s trailer?

Some days, I can answer without breaking down. On other days, the weight of it is too much. A few weeks ago, she asked differently—Why isn’t Georgie visiting me? That hit hard. Her room is filled with photos of Georgie. In my favorite, he is five years old—so cute. I look at it and think, how could this little boy be gone?

I wish, more than anything, that he were still here.

My conversations with my mother always end the same way. Vee Vee smiles and says, “Oh, he was so much fun.”

And she is right. Georgie could make anyone laugh.

I still enjoy my life, the family I have left, my job, and my art but there is not much joy anymore. There’s not much silliness or fun without Georgie and I miss that most of all.