It has taken me a while to write this.

When Orlando first died, all I wanted to do was put words on paper about how I felt. But as time went on – and I missed him more and more – I started avoiding it. Writing it down made it real. It meant he was truly gone, and I would never hear his laugh again or see his smile. I’d never hear him call me Marie again which, by the way, I never corrected him on. It just felt easier to delay writing this. Maybe by the time I did, I wouldn’t still be in denial.

But here I am. I know he’s gone, and I know I’ll never see him again. Still, a small part of me holds onto the hope that I’m wrong, or that this is all just a bad dream. Grief is weird like that. It’s messy, unpredictable, and sometimes downright annoying. LMAO. One minute I’m fine, and the next minute tears are rolling down my face. So annoying! LOL.

Just this morning, I heard the sound of a broom and dustpan hitting the floor as I entered the building. I turned around, and no one was there. I know what I heard. If Orlando’s a spirit now, he’s definitely messing with me. LMAO. I’m sure at some point I’ll fully accept his absence, but until then, I hope this tribute does him some justice.

How Love and Loss Weigh on Us

You never truly realize the depth of someone’s presence until they’re gone.

It’s been almost two months since Orlando passed, and it still doesn’t make sense to me. Every day, I walk past his door multiple times, still half-expecting it to open and hear him greet me like he always did. Even Stevie—my dog, his “daughter” as he called her—still looks for him. She waits by the door, ears perked up, tail wagging, as if he might step out any moment.

The building feels different now. Quieter. Emptier. I’ve never felt so alone here. Orlando wasn’t just the super—he was my protector, my friend, and honestly, the uncle I never had.

A Presence That Anchored Us

For over 30 years, he was the heartbeat of this building. He did it all—big jobs, small tasks, random favors—and always with a laugh, a story, or a joke that could make you smile even on your worst day.

He took me and Stevie to the ER more times than I can count, picked us up when I had no ride home, and insisted on dropping me off and picking me up from the airport just to make sure I was okay. When I was trying to sell my apartment over the summer, he offered me a quiet, cool space in his air-conditioned apartment to escape the heat.

Then there’s the flashlight he gave it to me one day, a heavy-duty one that could double as a weapon. I couldn’t help but laugh at the idea of a flashlight being my personal protector, but that was just so Orlando. Always looking out for me, even when I didn’t ask. We installed ceiling fans together. He helped me handle leak after leak in my unit. And more than anything, he just kept showing up – over and over. His kindness wasn’t loud. It was consistent!

“There are some people in life who make you feel safe just by being around. Orlando was one of them.”

Sometimes Grief is Quiet

It creeps in when you least expect it. Just when you think you’re okay, it catches you off guard, and suddenly, you’re crumbling all over again. Like the day I saw the flowers I had sent to his wake—still beautiful but dried out—lying by the trash bins in the back of the building. It stopped me in my tracks. I froze, tears spilling down my face. Without thinking, I pulled out two dried flowers and tucked them into my pocket. Somehow, they felt like a piece of him. Something I could still hold on to.

“Maybe grief doesn’t go away. Maybe we just learn to carry it.”

He Still Visits Me in Dreams

I’ve dreamed of him several times. In the last one, he was laughing—looking like a kid again, with big hair and that same mischievous spark in his eyes. I told him I was glad he was back and okay. Maybe that was his way of telling me he is okay.

His memorial card now sits on my TV stand. Some days, I smile when I see it. Other days, it breaks me. My heart misses him. Our building misses him. And I know I’m not alone in that.

His wake was packed with family, friends, and neighbors—all of us crying, hugging, telling stories. I met his daughter that day and made sure she knew how much her dad meant to me, to all of us. Being around his family felt like being surrounded by many little Orlandos. The love was unmistakable. So was the grief.

Grief Needs Space

I’ve learned that grief needs room to exist. It’s not something you rush or tidy up. You live with it. You let it ebb and flow.

Thank you, Orlando, for every ride, every repair, every story, every laugh. For the protection. For the flashlight. For being my constant when everything else felt shaky. I would not have made it through the past 14 years without you!

You were one of a kind, and you are so deeply missed.

Until next time,
MEC