All Posts

<p>The Alchemist by Paulo Coelho is one of my favorite novels. I read it years ago shortly after my first trip to Korea. I liked it because I could completely relate to Santiago, the main character. He chose to be a shepherd because he wanted to travel. I chose to teach for the same reason. [&hellip;]</p>

<p>Yesterday was not a good day. Tomorrow it will be exactly 18 months since Dad died. In that time, it has become evident that I can’t seem to catch a break. It’s as if the universe has cast an unbreakable curse over me, a curse ensuring that the dark clouds hovering above are unable to [&hellip;]</p>

<p>Dear Dad, I took G3 pumpkin picking with his friends today. Even though we went to a farm here in New Jersey, a farm you had never been to, it was impossible not to think about you all afternoon. Oh how you used to love when we visited this time of the year. I think [&hellip;]</p>

<p>My neighbor, I will call her Bikini Lady, does nothing all day except lounge in her backyard blasting country music — as if everyone in the neighborhood wishes to hear it — while wearing nothing but a bikini. She lives in a bathing suit, wearing it to do all her chores including folding laundry out [&hellip;]</p>

<p>The idea of students writing essays about what they did over summer vacation has increasing fallen out of favor in schools. For years, while the assignment excited some students, allowing them to relive the more thrilling moments of their summer break and perhaps easing their return to school, it absolutely devastated other students, kids’s whose [&hellip;]</p>

<p>Dear Dad, You always joked that I had a limitless amount of energy, that I could keep going when everyone else was ready to drop. When G3 was born you laughed, “Now you will know what it’s like to have someone push you to the brink of exhaustion.” Well, Dad, I’m sorry to disappoint you, [&hellip;]</p>

<p>Dear Dad, I struggled to get up this morning. The thought of tackling the day completely overwhelmed me. But I couldn’t figure out why my body felt heavier than usual, why my eyes refused to open, why all I wanted to do was go back to sleep. Then I reached for my phone and saw [&hellip;]</p>

<p>Dear Dad, Last weekend, G3 went on his first camping trip with the Boy Scouts. Oh how I wish you were here because you would have been really excited to hear him talk about it. You always enjoyed his enthusiasm about scouting. This trip wasn’t just a plain old camping experience. They went to Block [&hellip;]</p>

<p>Dear Dad, Yesterday was your 50th wedding anniversary. You and Mom were supposed to be on a cruise touring Europe and celebrating. Instead, Mom was with me in Mattituck doing last minute cleaning and packing so that she can sell the house. It’s happening. There is no hope that she will change her mind. All [&hellip;]</p>

<p>I dreamed about Dad last night. It was the first time in ages. I was in Queens cleaning up after the flood, but instead of helping Mom, I was helping Dad. He was wearing black rubber rain boots, boots he never owned, boots that didn’t seem odd until I woke up and realized they didn’t [&hellip;]</p>

<p>Dear Dad, How many Labor Day weekends did I spend at the Mattituck House? How many did G3 spend there? I think — except for the year you were in France, and the first year you were dead — he spent every Labor Day weekend of his young life with you. And what used to [&hellip;]</p>

<p>Dear Dad, Despite the horrible flood, Mom wanted G3 to have one final day at the beach in Mattituck. So, while she stayed in Glendale to continue cleaning the basement, I took G3 back out to Long Island for a day. Since it was going to be his last and he wanted it to be [&hellip;]</p>

<p>Dear Dad, Mom is hurting — physically and emotionally. She is getting hit by too much. This was supposed to be our last weekend in Long Island — our last Labor Day at the beach house. I knew it was going to be hard, but now it’s not even going to happen. Yesterday morning, G3 [&hellip;]</p>

<p>Dear Dad, You would be so proud of your grandson. Yesterday, he tested for and earned his second degree black belt. I wish you could have been there to watch him, you would have been in awe over how well he did. Two years ago, on Father’s Day weekend, when he tested for his first [&hellip;]</p>

<p>I am back in Mattituck. I came out yesterday to spend time with Mom and to help with the house. She was lonely being here alone. Since she doesn’t drive, she was trapped in the house and couldn’t go anywhere. It rained all day when I arrived, so we played dominos. Mom was happy to [&hellip;]</p>

<p>Yesterday, my son competed in a taekwondo tournament. He did well taking third place in both weapons and forms. I am especially proud of how well he did considering he is still wearing a first degree black belt but competing in a second degree ring. (Next week, he will test for second degree). In sparring, [&hellip;]</p>

<p>In novels, after a death, there is always closure. The novel wouldn’t work if there wasn’t. The reader would be left wanting more. The plot would feel unfinished. Real life is not a novel. After sixteen months, I still can’t find closure. Each time I try to locate it, it eludes me. Maybe the universe [&hellip;]</p>

<p>According to my memory on Facebook, it was two years ago today that my son asked his grandfather to please take him to the sound so that we could watch the sun set. Of course, Dad said yes. He always said yes to my son. And that night it was a beautiful sunset. We had [&hellip;]</p>

<p>It rained yesterday and it rained today, fitting weather for my mood. Yesterday, Mom and I spent the day packing up the house. Taking knickknacks off shelves, wrapping dishes in newspaper, boxing up memories. Maybe the rain drops are Dad’s tears. I know he never would have sold this place. We packed until we filled [&hellip;]</p>

<p>It’s been 67 days since I last wrote in my Pandemic Diaries. (Yes, you heard from me daily for a month, but that was different. That was about fun stuff. The diaries are different. They’re about death, its aftermath, and a virus turning the world upside down.) I honestly thought when I last wrote that [&hellip;]</p>