Queens: Five Years Post-COVID

Dear Dad,

It’s been five years since I last saw you. Last Thursday marked the anniversary of when I drove you to the hospital. At the time, I was hopeful that you would recover, that you would come home, and that my son would continue to be able to spend time with you. But COVID was still new and science was still trying to understand it. Doctors were doing what they could, but even they didn’t have the tools necessary to work miracles. For nineteen days, I lived with Mom, playing Scrabble and Boggle to keep our minds focused on something other than the fact that you were not getting better. Mom prayed the Rosary, begging God to be merciful, to allow you to return to the family who loved you. God, if there is a God, ignored her. 

Now, whenever I visit Mom, it’s a reminder of what we lost. After all these years—one third of my son’s life—the house still feels empty. I miss your waffles, your insistence on taking day trips, or going to the movies, your excitement at seeing my son, G3, when we walked in the door. G3 misses you too, but he rarely speaks about it. It comes out in subtle ways, wearing your old hats, or a Loony Tune sweatshirt because it reminds him of you. 

Being in New York is often hard, but this weekend it was particularly rough. I think it’s a combination of factors. Spring used to be my favorite season. I looked forward to the warm days, weekends of being outside, hiking or doing other outdoor activities. Then you got sick, and now I associate Spring—the season of renewal—with death. Being in Queens and playing board games with Mom reminds me of those long COVID days when we were trapped in the house with our grief. Also, my memoir, which is a lightly edited version of the blog I kept during that time, will be published in less than six months. I’ve been revisiting my words, my posts, as Kati prepares my marketing material and I do short clips plugging my book on TikTok. Whatever the cause, the house seemed emptier than it had in a while.

We got there early on Saturday afternoon. It was a gorgeous day, so Mom and I took a long walk through Forest Park. As we walked we reminisced about my childhood, memories of being at the park with you. We talked about Boy Scouts and the time there was an event for my brother’s troop in the picnic area. I recalled the day I threw up on your new suede jacket. I couldn’t have been more than two, maybe three. You were pushing me on a swing, and we were not yet aware of how sensitive my stomach was to motion. There were the countless times you  took us—my brother and I—up to ride on the carousel when I was little, and then, when my son was born you always enjoyed accompanying him to the playground. The memories seemed endless, and our grief, after five years, is still very present. Grief, it turns out, doesn’t get better with time. It morphs, changing shape and the way in which we interact with the world around us. However, the weight of it never disappears.

When we visit, Mom takes us out to dinner. It's easier than cooking considering G3 and I eat very differently. G3’s tastes in food are in line with what yours were. He enjoys a good steak, but also, he just likes going out to eat, he always has. Remember how excited he used to get when you took him to the Cherry Place. He misses going there, and has asked me to take him several times, but I’m not sure I could bring myself to go without you. I think it would be too depressing.

On Sunday morning, G3 went to church with Mom. I’m not sure why he feels compelled to go to mass when we visit, but he does, and Mom enjoys the company. The church ladies, as mom calls them, always say hello to him, and according to Mom, he’s always polite. While they are at church, I walk—the same route around the cemetery that I walked during COVID. It’s different now. The streets and parks have resumed their normal activity. There are basketball pick-up games, little league soccer, and cars racing off to wherever. The eerie, end of the world, desertedness is long gone. But I still remember, the graves being dug, the sound of ambulances blaring in the distance, and the longing to see you again that never quite went away.

I still miss you!

Mom & G3