I was seven years old; it was September and soon I would be celebrating my eighth-year birthday in a month. Pittsburgh that year had actually had an accumulation of snow, earlier than ever predicted and for many, who had followed the Farmer’s Almanac, this was no surprise winter blast, but something which a true believer that nature roamed the world in cycles, considered just happenstance. I was seven years old and it was one of the coldest days I recalled for that time of year, when my mother answered our kitchen phone, the one with the longest cord ever, so she could actually walk into the living room, holding the phone, and she said “Howard,” (my father’s name,) “you need to speak to your dad.” I remember the way my mother handed the phone to my father, I remember how she stood by his side as if she was his shadow, and I remember, my father nodding his head as might a toddler communicating with an adult, and I remember my father handing the phone back to my mother, saying nothing, standing still, my mother still cradling the phone in her hand, never placing it back on that little hook, which held the mouthpiece in place, and I remember watching my father cry. Not a loud set of tears or a huge moan, but his body shaking, his hands trembling and his lips almost defying the rest of his face in gyrations of smiles, pouts, zigs, and zags. My father walked into our living room, fell onto the one piece of furniture which was considered his, placed his hands on over his eyes, and through his fingers which seemed to form a mask, said to my sisters and me, your grandmother has died.
I was seven, and it was not that I had heard of other relatives passing away, but this was the first time, a relative was someone I considered a part of MY family. I remember, my parents telling me that I was going to the funeral, as I was the boy of the family, and this kind of responsibility was a part of being masculine and a future leader of my own family. I remember the funeral home, and the small room, which had a long red set of curtains thick and moldy, tightly closed, and in that room, was an open casket, in which my Grandmother was lying. I remember, my Grandfather taking me by the hand and saying, you have a duty as her grandson to kiss her goodbye. I leaned in and kissed my grandmother's head. It was for me at the time an oddest sensory sensation. My head told me she would be warm, my lips expressed something cold and bitter as the was the day outside. My heart was confused, and my body ached, wanting to run away, but feeling stuck in place as my grandfather holding my shoulders, moaned and said to both his wife and my grandmother, your grandson loves you!
That was my first experience with the death of an immediate member of my family, and I remember all of it. I share this story, (of which many reading this of course have similar tales to tell) because death then and death now is not an easy moment in one's life to endure. So, when I hear the privileged, cocky, ignorant, selfish, self-serving spoiled Americans touting that all COVID-19 is, IS just a FLU, and why get so worked up by the deaths it may cause, as if there have not been hundreds of other reasons people die, so fuck the mask and fuck social distancing, and fuck anyone who thinks this disease is so special, I have to wonder, if any of THAT ILK of flesh and blood, was born without a conscience, a brain, empathy or a purpose in life except to be nothing but a wild animal. People are dying, and suddenly it seems, that a mere mortal’s death is nothing but an inconvenience, a pain in the ass, a political statement. Who have we become, and why have become this way. I am seventy years old and I can still remember when I was seven, the first time I witnessed the death of someone I loved. One death too many!
