This picture was taken around Christmas, probably 1986.
My mom and my Uncle Sal, wrapped around each other in a kitchen that had seen a thousand meals, a thousand conversations, a thousand moments that felt ordinary then—but sacred now.
My mother loved my Uncle Sal.
She used to say he was the best brother-in-law she could have ever asked for. And she meant it.
They got along effortlessly.
They were both food people in their own way.
They loved a good meal.
They loved talking about food.
They loved sitting around a table and lingering.
They were New Yorkers to their core.
Uncle Sal was born in Manhattan.
My mom was born in the Bronx.
They both spent time growing up and going to school in Queens.
Like so many city families, they eventually made their way to Long Island and built their lives there.
My family took a little detour—ten years in the Hudson Valley.
I eventually moved to California.
My parents migrated back to Long Island around 2000.
Life kept moving.
Families spread out.
But the bonds stayed.
A Different Era
For many years, my mom and Uncle Sal smoked.
A lot.
It was normal then.
It was everywhere.
It was part of the culture.
Nobody chooses addiction.
They grew up in a time when it was woven into daily life. By the time they really faced the need to quit, the damage was already done.
It’s one of those quiet tragedies of a generation.
When It Became Real
I returned to New York several times as my mother entered the final stages of her journey.
I had spent decades as a care consultant.
I had helped thousands of families.
And yet… when it was my own mother, I was just as lost as anyone.
Experience doesn’t protect you from heartbreak.
One Thanksgiving, after a hospitalization, we brought her home.
It was bitter cold.
I went for a walk to clear my head.
When I came back, the caregiver we had hired was standing in the open garage. She said she was leaving—there wasn’t anything for her to do, and my father had told her she could go.
I gave her whatever cash I had in my pockets.
Inside, my dad said, “Your aunt is here.”
When I walked in, something was wrong.
My aunt didn’t seem like herself.
Then she told us.
Uncle Sal had a terminal diagnosis.
We were launched into outer space.
Nothing prepares you for that moment.
Two Losses. Two Days.
In mid-January, we lost Uncle Sal.
I called him “The Italian Stallion.”
A die-hard NY Giants fan.
Active. Funny. Cool.
He had no idea how beloved he was.
He was humble.
Quietly generous.
Deeply admired.
You could see it at his memorial.
All the love he never bragged about.
My mom’s service was the very next day.
Two families.
Two goodbyes.
Two days in a row.
It was surreal.
So painful it became numbing.
The Ribbon
At my mother’s service, it was my father, my three sisters, and my aunt.
We were the immediate family participates in Kriah—the tearing of a black ribbon to symbolize grief.
My aunt had already lost her parents.
Now her husband.
Now her sister.
All within days.
When they tore that ribbon, it was at the cellular and spiritual level.
We are a tough family. Tough people.
Tough times don't last, but tough people do.
That type of grief untethers everyone.
No one is immune.
The Kind of Missing That Has Layers
Grief is a naughty emotion.
It doesn’t just take.
It reshapes.
I don’t only miss my mother.
I don’t only miss my uncle.
I miss my mother loving my uncle.
I miss the way they appreciated each other.
I miss that era—
when there was more innocence,
more curiosity,
less weight.
I miss when life felt more grief-free.
Why We Struggle to Plan
In my professional world, we talk a lot about lack of planning.
Why families wait.
Why they avoid conversations.
Why they don’t prepare.
I think part of it comes from this:
We are always longing for the past.
For “when things were easier.”
For “before.”
For when our parents were strong.
For when we didn’t have to think about endings.
So we delay.
We pretend.
We hope.
Until reality arrives.
Tell Me Why the Road Turns
This photo isn’t just about two people hugging.
It’s about:
Love.
History.
Migration.
Habits.
Loss.
Resilience.
Family.
It’s about everything we carry forward.
And everything we wish we could go back to.
Tell me why the road turns.
Maybe it turns so we learn.
Maybe it turns so we remember.
Maybe it turns so we can help the next family walk it with more clarity, more support, and less fear.
That’s why I do what I do.
For them.
For us.
For the families still standing in kitchens, not knowing what’s coming next.
