The steady stream of screeching sirens has subsided. The man across the street who blasted “New York, New York” on his boombox from his fire escape, every night at 7pm, has gone silent. The pots and pans we all banged on to accompany him sit silently in their storage places. Even so. I still remember.

It’s been almost 1,800 days since I last heard your voice. My last living memory is you, waving the ASL sign for “I love you,” as the EMTs loaded you into the back of the “bus” as they call the ambulance in police dramas on TV. In retrospect, the back of the “bus” seems to be appropriate given how those infected by the novel coronavirus were then, and even now are, ignored, forgotten, and considered second class citizens.

ER doctors deliver dire news. Frantic phone calls to family far away widen the circle of pain. I can’t be with you, to comfort you, to touch you. I’m so scared. You must be, too, caught up in this whirlwind of unfamiliar faces, voices and constantly beeping machinery. I cannot sleep. I stare at the phone daring it to ring. I win that first battle as I drift off to a restless sleep.

A late morning update. A drug has given you the chance to breathe a little better. It’s too much to hope for. By sunset, you struggle again, gasping for life-giving air. New medications are ordered.

Another night on the roller coaster of hope and despair. Signs of improvement, soon followed by the descent into disappointment. I want to see you. Through the wonder of technology, you appear on the screen of my phone as a nurse holds her phone, sealed in a plastic bag, close to you. I can barely see your face covered with an oxygen mask; tubes splayed all around you. I say hello and take the raising of your eyebrows as a sign that you recognize my voice. I tell you how much I love you and that I’m praying for you to come home to me. I dissolve into tears and the nurse ends the call.

Saturday afternoon brings the news that there are no more miracles. The hospital wants to move you to end-of-life hospice care. They need me to sign the authorization papers. Their plans do not seem to include me. Sunday morning rolls around and the end is near. The doctors ask if I want to see you. What a question! Of course, I do.

The normally raucous hospital is silent, all the doors locked. I wave at a security guard who comes and lets me in. They dress me up in a moon suit and lead me to where you lie peacefully, breathing ever so gently. You are not conscious, but the nurses tell me that hearing is the last sense to go. So, I hold your hand and talk to you, remembering and retelling our shared history. Soon, I have to leave. Others need their time to say goodbye to their loved ones. I kiss you one last time on the forehead. The heart monitor jumps a bit. I’m sure you know it’s me. Back home, just thirty minutes later, a final call from the hospital. You have broken free from the bounds of earth, released to enjoy the rewards of paradise.

I know you are well. I see you when you come to visit. Your ethereal spirit standing guard at the side of the bed as I lay sleeping. I am grateful for your presence.

I’m now part of a horde of unexpected mourners. Alone, at first. Isolated. Confused. Dazed. But slowly, I unite my grief with that of others as we tend to each other and carry ourselves forward along a path where no one knows will lead. The journey is still ongoing. We travel together, a family of choice, accompanied by our loved ones, in their stories we have shared and continue to tell.

The world wants to move on from COVID-19, to pretend it never wreaked havoc in lives across the globe. But, for millions of Americans, the pall of sickness and death still shrouds them in sadness and fear and, yes, anger. Despite the vulgar crassness of so many, we survivors continue to proclaim the legacy of those we lost. They will always be remembered.