Last Christmas Day, as I waited for the delayed Empire Amtrak train to upstate New York, I noticed a man in his twenties, going from trashcan to trashcan, scrounging for bits of discarded dinners to satiate his hunger. The homeless population is not an uncommon sight at Penn Station, or in any major city for that matter, and such a presence often goes unnoticed. A combination of Christmas and sharing the same age demographic, I picked up a sandwich, a piece of fruit, and a Coke and caught up to him a few trashcans later. The exchange was simple, he offered a “Merry Christmas” in return, and a few words later, we both headed in our respective directions.

The last time I was in Penn Station was a mere five weeks ago on the Monday before Thanksgiving. My cousin, Shannon, my girlfriend, Liz, and I packed in a cab en route for the New York City Medical Examiner’s office. We returned to identify the body of Becky, Shannon’s mom and my aunt.

Less than 24-hours prior, we had just wrapped up an extended family trip to New York City. My Aunt Becky, three of her sisters, and a few members of the second generation, had traveled from various locations for an impromptu family reunion weekend in the heart of Times Square. The rendezvous included a Broadway show, a number of meals spent together at various restaurants and Irish bars (a family favorite), strolling the streets to take in the magical lights of New York City at Christmas, and culminated with a walk through Central Park. The weather perfect and the company even better.

We departed New York that Sunday afternoon in waves. As the group gradually trickled out, my sister and her boyfriend, Liz, myself, and Aunt Becky remained. The four of us were taking a bus back to Philly and Aunt Becky was boarding a return flight to Ohio in just a few hours. We stood in the lobby of the Westin, said our goodbyes, as everyone repeatedly commented on how great of a weekend was spent together in the city. As I hugged Becky goodbye, she told me she had waited many years to see New York at Christmas and how lucky she felt to have seen it with family.

That was the last time anyone spoke with Becky. Shortly after she returned to her hotel room, she passed away. The details of the following hours and days were chaotic, overwhelming, sad, and surreal.

Becky was the true epitome of selflessness. True to her morals and always grateful for her lot in life, Becky placed the needs of others ahead of her own on all occasions without complaint, recognition, or fanfare. She devoted herself to her husband and children, to her siblings and their families, and to her community, where she volunteered countless hours to her church and local Hospice. And when four grandchildren entered her world, Becky was truly in her glory, knowing every scene of Rio by heart, understanding the complex working relationship of Doc McStuffins and Lambie, and singing every word of “Let It Go” car-trip a capella, all feats that should independently lead to canonization. Becky truly loved every minute of time spent with family and friends.

When a family member dies, those left behind are often subjected to a barrage of cliche phrases of comfort as others try to be supportive in hopes of making sense out of tragedy. This was hardly the case with Becky. Every single family member, friend, coworker, church member, and fellow volunteer that offered condolences had a personal connection to Becky that was truly unique and unparalleled. You don’t find that often.

Shortly after Becky’s funeral, a handful of people asked me if I was going to write any sort of tribute to her. I blew off the suggestions to do so, as I knew there was nothing I could pen in a few hundred or a few hundred thousand words that would do Becky’s life any sort of justice. I thought of the countless childhood beach trips to Cape May, taking us to play putt-putt or to the boardwalk arcade. I remembered trips to their family farm in Ohio, visits to the fair, and trips to Delaware over the holidays. College visits to West Virginia, and countless care packages of puppy-chow, cookies, and groceries that I was too cheap to buy. When any holiday, birthday, or personal milestone rolled around, I could count on a card in the mail from Becky ahead of anyone else. Most recently, I recalled a number of conversations on family trips to Avalon and the Outer Banks, in which Becky told her favorite stories of growing up with her parents and many siblings, and reflected on how proud she was of her own family. She always stressed the importance of paying it forward and remembering your roots. Despite trying, there is really no way to fashion these decades of fond memories and good sentiments into words, as her impact was truly widespread.

Today is Christmas day, and I found myself sitting in Penn Station waiting for the same Empire Amtrak to Albany exactly one year later. I thought of Becky and the previous trip to New York City and thought it might be a small tradition in her memory to buy dinner for another homeless person in Penn Station. Perhaps the unseasonably warm weather is to blame, but as I took a few laps around the station, I was coming up short on homeless people. Weirdly disappointed, I joined a sea of people and waited for my boarding call. As I stood there for less than a minute, a middle-aged man cut his way through the crowd. He confidently walked up to me, explained that he was hungry, and asked if I would buy him dinner.

Merry Christmas, Aunt Becky.