For Cousin Tony

A story about love, loss, and the meals we still cook for those who never really leave.

Author’s Note

I almost didn’t share this story. It felt too personal, too raw. But grief sits heavy when it stays quiet. And the more I thought about it, the more I realized this, too, belongs here, because food and memory live side by side. The meals we share, the laughter, even the empty seats at the table. They all tell a story.

If you’ve ever loved someone you can’t call anymore, I hope this reminds you that love doesn’t disappear. It changes form, like an old recipe we keep making in their honor.

Today, Oct. 5, 2025, would have been my Cousin Tony’s birthday.

He was born, raised, and lived a vibrant life in London. And for most of my life, Cousin Tony felt closer than anyone on this side of the ocean. He wasn’t just my cousin. He was my big brother. The kind of person who didn’t need me to explain myself when I couldn’t find the words. He just understood. He gave me space when I needed silence and laughter when I needed light.

My Cousin Tony

Cousin Tony died on Sept. 4, 2021, almost one month before his birthday. Cause of death…complications from a stroke. Because of the pandemic, I couldn’t fly to see him. I couldn’t be at his bedside to hold his hand. I watched his funeral livestream on YouTube, sitting thousands of miles away, trying to believe that a screen could carry the weight of goodbye.

The church was packed. There was an overflow for people who couldn’t fit inside.

His teammates, the ones he played football with over the years, kicked around a soccer ball at his gravesite until sunset. Passengers who knew him from his bus route paid their respects. Students from his driving school business showed up and shared their stories with our family. Everyone loved him. I can only imagine what the repass was like.

Cousin Tony was a good human. Grounded, kind, and one of the best cooks I’ve ever known. We used to share photos and videos of whatever we were cooking. Food was our language, our way of staying close.

From ackee and salt fish to roasted duck, my Cousin Tony was a wiz in the kitchen

We had a healthy competition between us to see who was the best in the kitchen. When I learned he bought a smoker to make jerk chicken, I ran out and bought a grill-smoker to practice making jerk turkey for Thanksgiving. Till this day, my family talks about how juicy and flavorful my jerk turkey is.

Thanksgiving was Cousin Tony’s favorite American holiday. He would come to the States almost every year for family, food, and shopping. He always did major damage at Macy’s Herald Square in New York City.

Once it was safe to travel again after the pandemic, the plan was to make him give me the respect I deserved for my Jamaican Jerk Thanksgiving turkey. Unfortunately, that game day in our kitchen never came. I think about that a lot, now that food has become such a big part of my own storytelling. I wish he could see what I’m doing. I wish I could send him food pictures and videos again. (The following is a short video of Cousin Tony’s jerk chicken on the grill.)

There’s a letter from his longtime girlfriend that I still haven’t opened. I know what’s inside; it’s the funeral program. I tell myself I’ll open it one day. Some things take time.

On Sept. 4 and Oct. 5, I scroll through our old iMessages. I read through all of our friendly digs about whose food tastes best. And I reminisce over food photos we sent back and forth over the years. One of the most memorable photos he sent wasn’t food, though. It was a picture of his “loved ones wall.” On the right-hand side, there’s a picture of the two of us, arm in arm, smiling into a selfie. I hate taking selfies, but for him, I made an exception. And for that, I’m glad I did. Because every time I see it, I feel him again; steady, patient, smiling in that quiet way that said everything was going to be alright.

The selfie I never wanted to take, but I’m so grateful I did.

His favorite piece of advice when I’m torn on making a life decision, no matter how big or small: “Do you, Cuz! Do you!”

I miss you, Tony.
Happy Birthday, Cuz.

Grief never really ends. It changes shape. Some days it looks like tears, and other days it seems like gratitude. I’ve learned grief, like cooking, is never truly finished. You keep stirring what’s left: love, laughter, and life lessons, until it becomes something you can taste without breaking.

If you’re missing someone today, too, talk about them. Say their name. That’s how we keep them alive.

P.S.
If this story resonates with you, please share it with someone who might need it.
We never know who’s missing their person, too.