For Johnny, through Ramona’s Heart
John Preston
June 19, 1972 - August 25, 2011
Johnny, Ramona, and I were always acquaintances. We orbited similar circles—sometimes crossing paths, sometimes just waving from a distance. I knew of Johnny, but I also knew Johnny, in that way you know someone by the way others speak of them. He left an impression. The kind that didn’t need center stage to be felt.
Ramona and I weren’t close back then. We were friendly, not yet tethered. It wasn’t until his death that we found our way to each other—not through old memories, but through fresh grief. That’s when we became sisters in a club we never signed up for. The Widow Sisterhood. And that’s when I started to understand the full story of the man she loved.
Johnny Preston was the kind of man who moved through the world with intention. A Corporal with the Monroe County Sheriff’s Office, he believed in fairness, in service, in protecting the people around him. Ramona says he was tough but just, strong but gentle—someone who didn’t just do his job, he showed up for it with his whole heart.
He had a soul built for both order and art. He once served a mission in Japan and carried the beauty and reverence of that experience with him always. He earned a master’s in Criminal Justice Administration. He painted. He built computers. He had a sense of humor that could crack a serious day wide open, and a smile that landed somewhere between mischief and warmth.
He was also, deeply and unmistakably, a father. Johnny adored his son, Adam. You can feel that love in every story Ramona shares. It wasn’t performative—it was foundational. That kind of fatherhood—the real, rooted, always-thinking-about-you kind—doesn’t end. It carries. It echoes.
Today, Johnny’s memory lives not only in Ramona’s heart or Adam’s, not only in the friends and family who loved him, but in the joy and spirit of his beautiful grandchildren. In their eyes. Their laughter. The way they surprise the world—sometimes with the exact kind of sparkle he once carried. His legacy is not behind us. It’s right here, unfolding.
The day he died was sudden. Crushing. Not a reflection of who he truly was. The circumstances were a terrible mix of things outside of who he’d ever want to be—an altered state not driven by will, but by a silent storm no one saw coming. Ramona says it best: He wasn’t in his right mind. And if he had been, he’d have been heartbroken by what happened. That was not the Johnny she knew. Not the Johnny anyone knew.
Their last day together was pure joy. Games at the New York State Fair. Dancing. A Ferris wheel. Buying a birthday gift for her mom. Small moments that turned out to be monumental. That’s what love does—it turns ordinary days into sacred ones.
Each year, Ramona honors him with a donation to the American Foundation for Suicide Prevention. She visits his grave. She remembers. She speaks his name. She doesn’t let grief define him—she lets love do that.
I didn’t walk closely with Johnny during his life, but I’ve come to know him through the woman who loved him. And if grief has taught me anything, it’s that the deepest connections sometimes bloom after the goodbye.
So here’s to Johnny.
To the father, the artist, the protector, the smile in the room.
To the man who lives on in stories, in laughter, and in the next generation who carry his spark without even knowing it.
We remember you, Johnny.
With reverence. With tenderness.
And with love that refuses to end.
Ramona, thank you for letting me walk a mile in Johnny‘s honor and memory.
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