We just made it. We were the lucky ones. No masks, no social distancing. We hugged, cried, wiped our noses and eyes with tissues we then crumpled and held in our hands; we stood shoulder to shoulder huddling around Mom's grave and listened to the priest, who held his own overworked tissue for what seemed a constant runny nose. He recited a prayerful goodbye and then went to the soft black tote in which he carried his bible and documents. He took out a large bag of Werther's candy and put it atop the casket casually as one might put a heavy grocery bag on the kitchen counter. He paused and smiled and said he'd like to share a personal story about our Mom. She always called him to her to offer him a Werther's candy so he wouldn't have dry mouth during mass. We all smiled, and some laughed with the familiarity of her love of hard candy. She had a way.

She was always thinking of sharing something purposeful. Her small gifts and gestures, laced with a humble comment and smile, made one leave aside whatever thoughts and preoccupations and join in the unwrapping of the candy to share in the delight of an awakened sense of taste punctuated with an exclamation "sooo good!"

"Would you like a piece of candy? I think I have a Werther's in my purse." Despite her waning strength, Mom would deliberately stretch out her index and middle finger like pincers of a crab and reach deep into her navy blue leather purse. She loved bags with many pockets to store extra supplies of her favorite things. Occasionally, almost as part of her performance, she would pull out a medical lozenge and say with a laugh..." Nah, you don't want that" and go back digging.

She would finger the contents of her purse: quarters won at bingo, pomegranate-colored Loreal lipstick, a tiny hand mirror, a folded paper calendar of the weekly activities at St Patrick's nursing home, her wallet, a teal green plastic pick for her hair, a prayer card with a picture of her husband, Joe. "Ahhhh...here it is. I was hoping for you." As soon as she handed the piece to him, she announced hope there might be one left for her. Although she had hundreds of candies back in her room and restocked her bag at every opportunity, she always seemed to live in the moment that she may not have one, and the discovery made them taste all the sweeter. After the priest passed around the candy, we all remained in place around her casket while Johnny and Theresa sang "The Parting Glass." It was a beautiful closure to help us say goodbye to Mom. More hugs, then we headed to the Irish pub nearby where we enjoyed a meal over stories about Mom. As the final gathering was of many who traveled some distance to come together, we parted with long hugs and well wishes. The next day, the Governor of Massachusetts shut down all gatherings, access to nursing homes, including my mother's, where we had just gathered the day before at the church that was attached so that all the residents might attend.

4.5 months later "Can you come?" One of my best friends asked me after sharing she was gathering a small group of friends to spend the evening with our high school friend. She had just learned he had metastasized bowel cancer. Would I fly from Seattle to Massachusetts for this? "Yes, of course, I will. Let's collect old photos and music and have fun." I missed saying goodbye to my Mom when she could speak and say goodbye to me. I love the idea of intentional truthful joyous gatherings to be together. After I made this gut decision, I felt a need not to tell anyone. I would go quietly, not tell my brother and sister in Boston. I would go for one night, stay with my girlfriend, and be part of a special evening. I bought the ticket, rented a car, and planned to wait 3-4 hours in line for a 15 minute COVID-19 test in Dennis, Cape Cod as the gathering would be at my girlfriend's home nearby. If clear, I could join the party without infecting anyone. A few days after holding this secret plan, I leaked the idea for my trip with a few friends with science and healthcare backgrounds. Like taking a stiff drink when pressed for time, I knew the packed truth of my potential action would yield from my friends. Perhaps I knew before the replies and just wanted to hear it in waves. I knew the party would go on without me, and there would be laughs, stories, drinks, and delicious food. I knew my friend would feel loved, and although my presence might be an added joy for both of us, I began to feel selfish at the risks I was taking compared to the reward for the one deserving the love, support.

I hate COVID-19. I never was able to talk to my Mom about it. In my childhood home, there was a Normal Rockwell Painting of the Golden Rule. I know she and my Dad followed this as a guiding path for their actions and I have been reminded of this during COVID-19. My mantra has been to ‘do no harm’.