No More Cheeks

    My uncle died early Sunday morning.  My cousin texted me Friday that they had upped his morphine, and he wasn't eating.  His seven progeny had each visited, taking turns, after their CovId tests, and said their good-byes to their father.

     Our separation was not only medical but also a geographical one. I lived almost 3,000 miles away.  I  had only reconnected with him when my own father had passed.  Yet, in the past 18 years I had visited almost annually- initially dragging my toddlers, and eventually sullen teenagers to have lunch with the kind, gentle man.

   Every time I visited my uncle and aunt they always filled me on my seven cousins, their lives, their children, even their grandchildren and for a second I felt a part of their tight family unit.

   I held my phone in my hand that morning and knew I could not support my cousins in their grief, nor could I pay my respects, and share my love for this man who lived so far away.  I understood, and accepted the science but nonetheless I felt helpless. Although this was an all too common and familiar feeling this pandemic I found myself hoping that my grandparents would forgive me.