If you’re offended by cuss words, don’t read this.

I know a lot of you look to my posts for a dose of levity in an era marked by gravity. Not feeling it, this time. Because COVID-19 landed on our clan with an ominous thud. It took my first cousin, Paul.

We were an eight-pack, the Trenton cadre of cousins. Four in one family, four in the other. We grew up together—it was in this group that we found our first companions, confidants, friends and rivals. We learned to be young humans, together.

We’ve been plugging along since the enterprise began, in the waning years of World War II. Suddenly, we’re a player short of a full roster. Paul was the first to go, leaving a black hole none of us can wrap our heads around.

If you’re Sicilian, your first cousins are basically brothers and sisters who happen to live in another house. Paul was like my other older brother. Curse this piece-of-shit no-good fucking virus. This piece-of-shit no-good fucking virus killed my other, older brother.

Sorry. I needed to get that off my chest.

He had been struggling in the hospital since before Christmas. Some of you regular readers had him and his family on your prayer list and for that I am eternally grateful. I was praying, too. Practically incessantly. For weeks, barely an hour passed between occasions that his face appeared in my mind’s eye, accompanied by an echo of his legendary laugh. (Paul had a great laugh.) I’d say a prayer for him and his family—then do it again the next time something reminded me of him. I prayed against the odds, hoping against hope. But we got the call the afternoon of New Year’s Eve.

I have more than a dozen first cousins. They’re all unique, special to me for different reasons. With Paul, I can distill it down to one thing; no matter what, he believed in me.

A decade my senior, I was still a kid when he was flirting with adulthood. Whether football or music or scholastics or anything else I showed interest or aptitude in—Paul always encouraged me—kicking me in the ass and working desperately to help me to realize that I had real potential.

Like most kids, many of the interactions I had with typical adults centered around “that’s not gonna work,” and “you can’t do that” and “forget about it.” It’s human nature. Especially with relatives. They want to protect the youngsters, so they encourage the familiar and discourage the exotic. Paul stood out from that crowd. He wanted me to go to Princeton. Princeton? Are you nuts? No, he wasn’t. He could see that kind of future for me. We come from largely uneducated, blue-collar stock. Our elders were good, hard-working, salt-of-the-earth people. But to them, Princeton might as well have been Mars. Paul transcended those humble roots and saw in me what an awkward, self-conscious, goofy blue-collar teenager could not see in himself; the potential to make a real noise, in a world of quiet mediocrity.

No matter what, he supported me and built me up. Paul always believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself. (If only I’d listened to him!) I didn’t fully appreciate it, then. But as the years passed, I realized it was a real gift, given without hesitation or condition.

He was an inspiration. He did stuff–stuff I couldn’t even imagine doing. Either he had few fears or found ways to overcome them. He joined the Navy. Stationed in Alaska, eavesdropping on Soviet radio communications. I imagined him toiling away in a dimly lit radio shack, copying Morse code and protecting us from the Communist threat. It probably wasn’t anything like I envisioned, but in the mind of a 12-year-old, he was James Bond. We were pen pals, the whole time. I wrote him and he wrote back (no e-mail in those days.) The fact that he took the time to answer pesky letters from his kid cousin is testament to the kind of guy he was.

He worked his butt off to make a good life for his family—including years of getting up at the crack of zero to get to work on time in New York City. That takes guts. He got into the advertising business before I did and helped me navigate that particular corner of Insanityville. Sharing a scotch, he often gave advice designed to both help me succeed and protect me from the ever-circling sharks. I even had the privilege to work with him on a few projects over the years.

You always knew where Paul stood, there was little doubt. And he wasn’t bashful about letting you know—another quality I wish I had a little more of. We had our disagreements. But there was never a single moment that put into question our mutual devotion. I loved him like a brother and I know he felt the same.

Part of me can’t believe I’m writing this. The other part says, wake up, butthead. Did you think for a single second that you and your family would somehow escape the brutal effects of this no-good spawn of Satan?

I know, I know. The novel coronavirus spares nobody. Grow up. Viruses kill people. It happens every day, as it has happened, every day, since we climbed out of the primordial slime. Sometimes, it’s people you love.

In my mind, I get it. In my heart, I’m dying a thousand deaths. This time, it’s personal. The dumpster fire we called 2020 took one of my own. (Ironically, on the very last day of the year.)

New Year’s Eve was a tough day for my family. I kept it together, all day. Trying to be strong for my mom and my sister, who was visiting when we got the call. I see death as part of life. Tragic, yet natural in its universal inevitability. As a believer in a force greater than myself, I see death as the culmination; the bridge that gets us to the final destination. Christians are taught to celebrate the journey, to seek joy amid grief. The way he went stinks out loud. But, knowing Paul had similar feelings about the hereafter, I was OK because I knew he was OK.

At least, I thought I was OK.

Later that evening, we discovered on Channel 12 what seemed a perfectly suitable diversion to get our minds off things; two choirs, one from Doylestown, the other from Philadelphia, joining forces to sing holiday favorites. I watched and heard an elegantly sublime rendition of Silent Night, performed by supremely talented musicians—masked and six feet asunder.

The valves opened. I was destroyed, helpless, road kill, toast. Wracked with sob after snotty sob. It felt as if every drop of fluid in my body was falling from my eyes and nose. Not exactly in character for me. But as I mourned on the last day of the worst year in recent memory, I wept, not just for Paul, but seemingly for 2020 itself. For the nearly two million souls snatched from our grasp by this mindless, soulless, unfeeling spore—an undead collection of protein molecules, 1/800 the diameter of a human hair. The little shit.

I am grateful beyond words for the last time I saw Paul. He visited Mom about a month before his departure. He was dedicated to her and visited regularly. One reason Mom considered him one of her own. As he stood to leave, I masked up and hugged him, even though I knew it was against the rules. And I told him I loved him. Who knew that would be our final farewell?

Maybe not quite final. We’ll meet again. I hope they have Scotch in heaven. I expect it’s the good stuff.

Love to all. Please keep Paul’s family in your prayers.

=S

TO BE CONTINUED

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