Andrew James Lefevre Romero

“So live your life that the fear of death can never enter your heart.”

I hear Andrew’s voice…

“When it comes your time to die, be not like those whose hearts are filled with fear of death, so that when their time comes they weep and pray for a little more time to live their lives over again in a different way. Sing your death song and die like a hero going home”

Chief Tecumseh

I normally wake up in shock and scared and it’s usually 4 or 5 AM when it happens. This blog is going to be a diary of sorts. I’m going to try and write down these conversations I have with myself every day since my Andrew died. It’s my grief voice doing it’s grief talks. We’ll see where this goes…

That poem was Andrew’s favorite poem and he truly lived in such a way that the fear of death never entered his heart. He lived that way since day one. The poem found him much later and he really felt a homecoming when he soaked it all in.

My first baby. (My second Mama)*

*Things I write in parentheses are things Andrew would actually say to me and I still hear him saying them.


It’s not who I wanted to be but here I am…

My Andrew-baby. So happy with Fishy

These are my truths

I’ve lived a life with grief but nothing could have prepared me for the journey I’ve embarked on since the death of my first-born son on May 25, 2018. Andrew James Lefevre lived 22 magnificent years on this earth. He lives on forever in the space that we feel around us.

These were the days
My mother and father.
Hope is always with us

I am Angela, Mom, mommy, momma, mum. I am a mom of 2 boys. Andrew and Alec. My babies. My guys. My why. I’m also the youngest of 5 and the only girl which makes me my dad’s favorite daughter. My mother died in a car accident in Colombia, where we are from, in July of 1971. She was 38 years old. I was 3 and a half. That’s when my life with grief began. That’s when I started talking with me, myself and I. Silently yet: Loudly. Daily. Sanely. Insanely and always emotionally. My paternal grandmother moved in with us right after our mother died and stayed with us for the rest of her life. She even moved with us to the States in 1975 even though she had to leave everything she ever knew behind in Colombia. She became our rock. She saved my life with her blanket of love and compassion. She lived 98 magnificent years on this floating rock and died peacefully in my arms on December 12, 2007.

Why am I doing this now? Because my son was an unbelievable force on this earth and he made a fatal mistake one day because 22 year olds are still prone to acting impulsively. Andrew died from an accidental overdose of Fentanyl/Xanax/Alcohol combo and since his death I’ve met countless moms and dads and siblings and families who have lost their kids to the same thing and I’ve seen so many people fall apart completely and lose hope. When I lost Hope at the age of 3 and a half years my wonderful grandmother stepped in and let me cry and talk while she made me rice pudding or soft boiled eggs or pancakes or scrambled eggs. She wrapped me in her blanket of compassion and love and those things she did allowed hope to sneak back in. She brought a smile back to my face and softened my falls along the way. She was a giver. She raised me with a giving heart and I hope I can give to others a little bit of what she gave to me. I hope my gibberish will soften someone else’s fall.

Some say, “Hope anchors the soul” and I believe that. Hope is beautiful. My mother’s name is Esperanza. Esperanza means Hope in Spanish. The truth is: Hope never died. Hope lives eternally in the space we feel around us. Hope always wants to be with us. We should embrace this and let hope in.



Letters in a journey of healing

I remember reading years ago in our local newspaper about an incident that happened in our community in which an infant died and the young father ended up in prison for his baby’s death. All of it just broke my heart . It was such a sad and troubling event that I made sure to […]

Something. I just don’t know what.

The pandemic hit sometime in February and now it’s the end of June. I feel like it’s been a day and an eternity. What’s really strange is that I feel this way about everything since you died, Andrew. Living without you right here with us, bothering us, making us laugh, filling the spaces with your […]

It’s 3:33 again

There’s something in my heart And it feels like fire There’s a yearnin’ in the river And it feels like home Take me down, take me down to the water Feels Like Home ~ Caamp I’ve been dying recently but not like 6 months ago or even close to the way I died 2 years […]

What a happy day.

I remember Cinnabons and I remember love

“When all is said and done I’d never count the cost. It’s worth all that’s lost. Just to see you smile” Just to See You Smile performed by Tim McGraw Every time I hear that song I cry. Not because of what he’s actually singing about but because of how this simple line in the […]

Clearwater Beach. Our Beach.

…The Piano Man

“It’s a pretty good crowd for a SaturdayAnd the manager gives me a smile‘Cause he knows that it’s me they’ve been comin’ to seeTo forget about life for a whileAnd the piano, it sounds like a carnivalAnd the microphone smells like a beerAnd they sit at the bar and put bread in my jarAnd say, […]

Souvenirs in the time of Covid-19

“All the snow has turned into water Christmas days have come and gone Broken toys and faded colors Are all that’s left to linger on I hate graveyards and old pawn shops For they always bring me tears I can’t forgive the way they rob me Of my childhood souvenirs” ~ John Prine ‘Souvenirs’ Last […]

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