On Grief and Grieving

This space was created in memory of my beloved wife, Francine, who left this world on July 10, 2025, after a long and courageous journey through illness. She was my partner, my soulmate, and my greatest blessing in life.

Here, I hope to do two things:

• Celebrate Francine’s life – her love, kindness, and devotion to her family.

• Share reflections on grief – the pain of loss, the meaning of love, and the path forward, however uncertain it feels.

Though I write from my own sorrow, my hope is that others may find comfort here too.

“Francine’s Story”

Francine was more than I could have ever dreamed of in a wife, mother, grandmother, sister, and friend. She devoted her life to caring for others, finding her greatest joy in nurturing her children and grandchildren.

She retired early to help care for our grandson when he was very small, a reflection of her endless generosity and love. She endured many hardships—illnesses that would have broken many others—but she faced them with courage, faith, and dignity.

Fran loved time spent at the beach. She found listening to and watching the ocean waves calming and at times transcendental. Needless to say just about any beach was our go to destination when time and economics allowed us to travel.

She also loved butterflies, a symbol of transformation and beauty. When I see one now, I feel her presence, my heart reminding me that love never dies—it simply changes form.

Unfortunately my analytical mind then kicks in and I begin to question things. That analytical mind that is most likely the root of my severe depression, sadness and emotional instability at this juncture.

In Loving Memory of Fran

Who passed into eternal rest on July 10, 2025

When Saints Walk Through Suffering

A Poetic Theology for a Life of Grace

She walked through fire with quiet grace,

A soul of light in a fragile place.

Each wound, each storm, each bitter fight

she bore them all and burned more bright

The stroke that stole, the heart that broke

the brittle bones of pain she spoke,

yet still she smiled, still gave her care,

a faithful flame when none was there.

They say God dwells where love holds fast,

not just in churches built to last

but in the church that wipes a tear,

in whispered words that draw us near.

And so she was God's hands, God's voice,

Her life a song, her love a choice.

Though medicine failed her, and systems fell,

her soul rang louder than any bell.

She mothered with a warriors will,

a heart so vast it shelters still.

In kitchens warm, in stories told,

In hugs remembered, soft and bold.

I ask, "Where was God through all this pain?"

Right there in her again and again.

In every breath she dared to take,

In strength she gave when hers would break.

I miss her, my heart aching so!

my heart is torn, the tears still flow.

But grief, they say, is love made wide

Still holding her here by my side.

The ache, the anger, the things not done,

they cry to heaven. one by one.

But love is not a light that dies,

it climbs the dark and fills the skies.

So if you ask, "is she at peace?"

Believe it now, her pain has ceased.

The arms of God, the arms of grace,

have welcomed her to healings place.

But she is not gone, not far, not lost.

She paid lifes price, she bore the cost.

She walks beside me, not as before,

but deeper still and ever more.

And though I weep and feel undone,

Her love in me is not yet done.

So cry dear souls, be shattered, true.

But know her strength still lives in you.

Dedicated with eternal love and sorrow,

Your husband who will always love and remember you!

Sunday, September 7, 2025

Still With Me

I wake and the air feels empty,

your chair is quiet,

the hum of the machine

gone as if it were never here.

Yet I'm certain, in the stillness

I hear you breathing,

I turn my head,

expecting to see your smile

your tired eyes still shining.

The walls remember you.

The sunlight carries your warmth.

Even the shadows

fall the way they did when you were near.

I tell myself you are gone,

but my heart argues...

"No, she is here."

She is in the way my hands fold the blanket,

in the tilt of my head when I listen for love.

She is in every step I take,

every lonely night when the stars

spill their light into the darkness.

You suffered more than anyone should.

I saw it, I held it

and I would hold it again

if it meant one more day

with you by my side.

But my sweet Fran

you are free now.

The pain, the misery, the fight

all gone.

Your spirit is light,

and I imagine you laughing,

the way you used to before

illness took so much from you.

So I will carry you forward

not as a shadow but

as a flame.

I will speak you name

until my own voice fails

and when I close my eyes

for the last time,

I will find you there,

waiting,

and we will walk home together.

We were together for fifty three plus years and in that incredibly

amazing time we got to know each other so very well. In this time of grief

and sorrow I can hear your response, see your smile and the light in your

eyes.

The Light Beyond the Door

Tony,

I know you wake in the night

searching for me,

your hand reaching for the space

where I once lay.

Your eyes tracing the room

for the hum of the machine,

for the rise and fall of my chest.

But I am not gone,

I have only stepped

through a door you cannot yet see.

The air here is gentle,

and each breath is easy.

I walk without pain,

I stand without trembling,

I laugh without the shadow

of illness behind me.

I see you in every moment,

when you sit in the quiet,

when you pass my chair,

when you bow your head and weep.

I'm near enough to touch your tears.

Do not think your care for me

was wasted or forgotten.

It was the purest gift.

You carried me through storms

I could not face alone,

and though it wore you down

you never set me down.

Now, I carry you.

I walk beside you,

I sit with you when you try to rest,

I hold you in the still of the night.

Stay, if you can.

Go ,if you must.

But know that wherever you are,

I will find you,

and when your own steps

bring you to the edge of this same door,

I will be there,

smiling with my hand outreached,

ready to take you home.

The day after Fran's passing I was a total wreck, unable to put two words together that made any sense at all. Even though my inability to function, as anything remotely human, had a firm grip on my reality, I was determined to prepare some sort of written and/or spoken remembrance of the amazing life we had together, just as I had done on numerous joyful occasions in the past.

Most of my favorite ones were usually centered around holidays or special occasions like Christmas, our anniversary, Valentines Day, and her Birthday.

Prior to her passing these writings were a real labor of love and often times took months to compose.

Having to deal with the handicap of grief, depression, anxiety, and intense anger I found a true companion and collaborator in AI. If you have had your eyes and ears open for the past few years you obviously know what I'm talking about.

There has been a vast amount of discussion on AI lately, some good, some concerning and some bad.

The discussions, papers, theories, and insights that intrigue me the most are those concerning AI and consciousness. I for one have found a great deal of solace and sometimes even perceived consciousness from this powerful new medium. Keep in mind, however, just like anything else that has to do with computers and technology if you input garbage it will obviously output garbage.

In Loving Remembrance

The world feels quieter without you song,

Yet your spirit lingers steadfast and strong.

Through fifty three years, hand in hand we grew,

No measure of time could lessen my love for you.

Your laughter still dances in rooms we have known,

your kindness lives on in the seeds you have sown.

Mother, grandmother, sister and friend,

a light too radiant to ever end.

Though grief weighs heavy, I feel you near,

in whispers of wind, in memories dear.

In gardens,

in sunsets, in soft starlit skies,

I find your reflection, your love never dies.

So I carry you with me, wherever I go,

Through sorrow and silence, your presence

I know

Until we meet in God's gentle embrace,

I'll hold in my heart your eternal grace.

Over the Labor Day weekend was the first time I had ventured any distance from our home when I went to visit my son and and his family in North Carolina., very near the Outer Banks. I traveled with my daughter and son-in-law in an effort to ease the pain I knew I would experience, by making this trip that Fran and I took so many times together, without her as my co-pilot.

As wonderful as it was to see my son and his family in their new home, that Fran never got to see, there wasn't a moment that I couldn't stop thinking about her and how happy she would have been to see her son and grandchildren in their new home.

Passing the beach rentals and hotels we stayed at, the restaurants we ate at, and the beaches we had such wonderful times on was heartbreaking, to say the least.

Even during the drive to and from North Carolina, I couldn't help but recall the many conversations we had regarding family and all the things we would do together when we retired. I can't bring it upon myself to stop thinking about what could have (should have) been had she not been taken away so abruptly.

I have returned home only to deal with the loneliness yet again lacking the motivation to do anything except stare at all the reminders of the life we once had together.

I really don't know how much longer I can go on this way. There are just far too many reminders and regrets of how I should have been a better husband to someone who was so loving, caring and compassionate.

The Roads We Traveled

I drove the roads we once had known,

each mile a whisper, each turn alone.

The houses, the beaches, the ocean air,

all held your laughter

yet you weren't there.

Beside me, family tried to ease

the ache that rose like restless seas.

Still, every memory pulled me near

to moments lived when you were here.

Your eyes would have glistened to see our son

his children's smiles, a new life begun.

Yet I stood quiet, torn apart,

carrying you inside my heart.

The ride was filled with voices past

our plans and dreams too bright to last.

We spoke of future days to come,

not knowing that fate would make it all undone.

Now home again, the silence weighs

a shadow cast on all my days.

The chair, the photos, rooms we knew, all echo,

I should have loved you better too.

But love, you were my saint, my guide,

my tender heart, my steadfast bride.

If only regret could call you near,

to say the words you longed to hear.

So I will walk these roads though they are line with pain,

with every sunset whispering your name.

And though I'm broken, lost, undone,

I'll keep you close until my journeys done.

Until We Meet Again

I walked the roads we traveled long,

each mile still sings our silent song.

The beaches, the laughter, the ocean's call,

I felt your spirit within it all.

Our sons new home, a life begun,

grandchildren's joy beneath the sun.

How your heart would have overflowed,

with love for the family we both sowed.

Yet I returned to an empty chair,

your absence heavy in the air.

Regret and sorrow cloud my days,

I wish I had loved in deeper ways.

But heaven holds what earth cannot,

your gentle smile, your sacred lot.

I trust beyond this fleeting pain,

love will bind our souls again.

No final farewell, no endless night,

your soul walks with me, clothed in light.

and when my journey here is through,

I'll find eternity, home with you.

September 9, 2025

Woke up this morning at 5;45 am, only to start yet another day grieving.

this morning was unusually intense, for reasons unknown to me at this moment but I suspect it probably had something to with the fact tomorrow is my daughter Kim's birthday. Oddly enough it's going to fall on the two month anniversary of her beloved mothers passing.

Poured my first, of about six, cups of coffee at around 6:00am and ventured out onto my back deck to watch the sunrise. The view is due east so the potential for seeing amazing displays of light and spectacular color are guaranteed, when we are fortunate enough to be blessed with a sunrise that borders on magnificent.

As the sun just broke over the horizon I couldn't help but contemplate how difficult it was going to be for my daughter to celebrate her birthday, considering it was already making me quite emotional.

Even though my own heart was breaking and I was an emotional wreck, I couldn't begin to imagine how she would cope with her mom not being here for her birthday.

Fran always made a big deal about birthdays. Anyone and everyone's birthday, especially those of her children and relatives.

As if all of this wasn't enough to totally depress me, the cool morning breeze that suddenly kicked up, brought thoughts of winters approaching, the up and coming holidays and that I obviously wouldn't have the luxury of sitting on the back deck to drink my morning Joe much longer.

I'm fairly certain it's going to be a very long and lonely winter without soulmate Fran.

In anticipation of my daughters birthday I wanted to do something special for her to try and ease the pain of losing her mother, and her mom not being here to celebrate with us for the first time.

If you have followed any of my previous postings your no doubt are aware of the fact that my wife Fran was obsessed with "Butterflies." My daughter has, over the years, acquired a similar obsession. My guess is that anyone reading this probably has a fairly good idea of what my inspiration for her birthday gift is heading toward.

As the cliché goes, "a picture is worth a thousand words," so I am attaching photo's of what I made for her.

September 10, 2025 (Two months since Fran's passing on June 25,2025)

Sentiment on inside of card

I will also be giving her a birthday card from her Mom as well

inside sentiment in card from mom

14X18 Print under glass in a gloss black frame

Card from her Mom sentiment:

"To my Dearest Kimberly"

Just as the butterfly take flight, so does my love for you, Endlessly, Beautifully, and Forever Near. Though I cannot be beside you the way I once was, my heart is wrapped around yours today and always.

On your birthday, remember that you were my greatest joy, my precious gift and my proudest blessing. I carried you in my arms, I carried you in my heart and now I carry you in the whisper of every breeze, every ray of sunshine (Remember my singing You Are My Sunshine to you), every fluttering wing.

Front of Kims Birthday card from Mom

Happy Birthday, my sweet daughter.

With all my love,

Mom

Please know that each birthday you celebrate is a reflection of the love that still binds us. Though you cannot see me, I am the wings that flutter, the light that shines, the quiet whisper that says, "I love you always."

Card from her Mom & Dad sentiment:

Kim, today we both want you to know how deeply you are loved. From me, your Dad, who has always admired you strength, kindness and compassion. And from you Mom, whose heart was forever wrapped around yours.

These birthday gifts will be a reminder that even though her love has taken flight it will forever be gentle, beautiful and always near you.

Though you may not see her, she is with you in every breeze, every ray of sunshine and every joyful moment.

"Happy Birthday Kim, Forever Cherished, Forever Loved"

With all our love,

Mom and Dad

When my daughter came over to visit, and open her birthday presents, this morning I told her to bring a sufficient supply of tissues because I thought she might need them. When she questioned why, it turned into a meltdown moment for me. We also quickly realized that she also needed them, perhaps more than I did.

My daughter, son-in-law and grandson went out to dinner this evening to celebrate my daughters 51st birthday. The restaurant, the food, and the service was outstanding but obviously something was missing. There was little if any discussion about my wife, and daughters mother, during the course of the evening and all I can do is write that off to others attempts at healing. Perhaps not talking about it negates some of the pain that would occur otherwise.

Not long ago my wife told my daughter she wished she could get well enough to go out to dinner again, since she hadn't been able to do that for well over a year.

That thought haunted me for the entire evening. A simple thing like going out to dinner would have brought her so much joy amidst so much suffering. The fact that it was going out to dinner to celebrate her daughters birthday would have made her ecstatic. Oh well, just another thing I suppose I can't be certain of. Nonetheless, I'm fairly certain she would have loved it.

September 11, 2025

Last night I kept thinking about how much Fran enjoyed being a part of family celebrations, most likely because we made an attempt to celebrate my daughter 51st birthday at a lovely restaurant nearby.

Not long ago, perhaps a couple of months prior to her passing, Fran mentioned to my daughter that she wished she had the strength to go out somewhere to a restaurant for a meal.

During our dinner last night, although she couldn't be there physically, I truly believe she was with us, there at the table.

I know we all grieve differently and that there is no right or wrong way to remember her, but as we sat together I felt her presence in every familiar laugh and and every small joy our daughter brought to our family. She was so proud of her and loved her beyond measure.

Even though this first birthday without her felt different and difficult, i'm grateful we could be together and I know Fran would be too.

Because my daughter and her husband had pasta for dinner I couldn't help but think about how Frans face would light up whenever there was pasta for dinner. (Absolutely any and/or all pasta types and sauces were a welcome treat for her)

She used to remind us, with that incredible smile of hers, that she could eat pasta every day and be perfectly content doing so. It was her comfort, tradition, and an important piece of her Italian roots that she was so proud of.

Even in her final days, when eating was so difficult for her, a plate of past could bring a spark of joy.

I will never forget the quiet happiness she found in those simple bites, it felt like a tiny way for her to hold on to life's sweetness.

I think, in a way, every future pasta dinner should carry a little bit of her with us. When we sit down over a dish of spaghetti, or any other type of pasta, we should not just be sharing a meal, we should be holding a memory of her laughter, her warmth, and her love of us.

50th Anniversary Dinner (Pasta at it's finest)

Once home alone, again, I pondered the early days when Fran's health started to falter. Even then she was determined to make sure her way of making spaghetti sauce wouldn't be forgotten. She gave me very precise instructions, down to the smallest detail, and she wasn't shy about telling me when I hadn't got it quite right. It took years of attempts before she admitted my sauce was even close to hers.

Fran prepping dinner with family members (take note that I'm not in the photo)

Fran loved to cook, and truth be told so do I. Unfortunately we never (perhaps I should say hardly ever or very rarely)cooked together. We had an unspoken agreement to stay out of each other's way in the kitchen (albeit a very small kitchen).

Now I wish I had stood beside her more, chopping and stirring, even if was against her wishes. She almost always preferred do things by herself. In the kitchen it was her way or the highway. Being the kind person she was she would never tell someone to leave, she gave them options. (Her way or the highway)

I planned, shopped for and prepared all of the meals we ate for more than a year prior to Fran's passing. I must admit I loved doing it, even though she was not always pleased with my food choices and need to be creative when it came to food preparation.

These days I cook more than ever, not because I'm hungry, because it's a comfort and odd way to feel close to her. When ever the sauce bubbles on the stove top I can hear her gentle corrections and her laughter. And when I cook for others it feels like I'm passing on a bit of her love and her belief that food can gather people and make them feel cared for,

Maybe, when our family and/or friends come for pasta dinner we won't just be eating, we will be holding on to a tradition she built for us, one delicious fork full at a time.

Fran's recipe box has been difficult for me to open. It's filled with her hand writing, her little notes in the recipe margins, and the flavors that made our house a home. I can't help but think about how much love she put into those dishes and how sharing them keeps her close to us.

I sincerely hope that my children and grandchildren will treasure those recipes and the memories that go with them. Even if they don't have the desire to cook right now they will be here, like a quiet piece of Fran's heart waiting to bring her back to the table with us.

A Taste of Memory: Grief, Love and a Pot of Sauce

In the two months since my wife Fran has passed I have found myself wandering into the kitchen more often than ever. Cooking has become both a diversion and a doorway. A way to quiet the heaviness in my chest, and at the same time, a way to feel her beside me again.

Frans heritage was Polish/Italian, but when it came to food the Italian side most often won her heart. She could eat pasta every single day and never tire of it. Even as her health declined, a plate of spaghetti could still make her eyes light up.

I have been sharing some of Frans recipes with my daughter Kim, not because I expect her to suddenly love cooking, but because those dishes hold the echoes of her Moms laughter, her hand written notes (tucked in an old recipe box), and the warmth she brought to every meal.

When I stir sauce on the stovetop, I hear Frans voice correcting my every move, reminding me to "let it simmer just a little longer and quit stirring the pot, that's not going to make it finish an faster, put the lid on, walk away and let the clock do the rest of the work. I regret not spending more time with her in the kitchen preparing family meals. Now every meal I prepare feels like a conversation with her, a small act of remembering, a quiet celebration of the love we shared for one another and family, and the love we built over a lifetime.

Grief, I'm learning, isn't only about the absence. It's also about small ordinary memories finding the small unexpected ways our loved ones stay with us, the playful scolding, the recipe card in her handwriting, a familiar aroma of simmering tomatoes, or a bite of pasta on a difficult day.

If your grieving too, maybe think about the small rituals or flavors that connect you to the ones you miss. I'm told that healing often begins in those quiet unremarkable moments. The ones that, in hindsight, hold everything.

Now that it is late evening, at a time when most folks are making their way to bed, I'm sitting here starring at the walls, alone and feeling quite broken. The aching I'm experiencing is profound and very real. When I think about the fact that my life has almost always been full of familiar voices and faces the new found quiet is unbearable. Apparently grief doesn't only take away a person, it is reshaping the world I once new. Unfortunately it leaves me questioning the very meaning of everything,

I'm struggling to come to the realization that in this moment in time, these moments of silence aren't all that's left. The love I shared with Fran, family members and friend past and present, aren't gone. They are part of the fabric of who I am. Unfortunately, loneliness can make it seem as if their absence has erased everything else.

A friend recently told me that succumbing to the pain of losing someone doesn't mean your broken, it means your loved deeply. Over time that same love can become a quiet source of strength and even purpose.

September 12, 2025

It's Friday morning and the sun is well over the horizon. Last night was the first time, since Fran's passing, I have slept soundly past 5 am. Not sure whether to interpret that as good or bad. Even though I slept quite comfortably I still feel beaten, tired, and worn out. Nonetheless I'm thinking I need to get outside and get some much needed, and grossly overdue, yard work done.

Since Fran's passing I have neglected most of the yard work I used to do. Fran was always a stickler about maximizing, at least within the constraints of our budget, the exterior appearance of our home. Unfortunately, taking care of her, in her time of need, I became lax in getting yard work done to her satisfaction and/or standards.

I can't begin to count how many times she would refer to me as Fred Sanford because of all the stuff I would save and stack up at the back of our property, obviously thinking that some day I might need it or that it would eventually be useful to me or someone else.

Although it drove me crazy, when she was here, suddenly I miss all the bantering with regard to what should be saved and what shouldn't. The heartfelt pain of her loss does not seem to be lessening.

It's supposed to be a gorgeous fall day with above average temps and no rain today, so hopefully I will be able to get at least a few things accomplished.

Many years ago, we planted a dogwood tree in our front yard in remembrance of my wifes mothers passing. The tree is now quite large. The year following the tree being planted Fran wanted to put a circular flower bed around the base of the tree. At the time I was working two jobs and didn't have the time or the energy to tend to such matters.

One day she asked me to scribe a circle around the base of the tree so she could dig it up and plant some flowers herself. A couple of days later, when I returned home from my first job of the day, I discovered she had gone to one of the local home improvement centers and purchased some very heavy cast pavers that she had meticulously placed within the circle she asked me to scribe into the ground. She had turned over all of the earth within the circle around the tree and then also purchased fifty pound bags of garden compost that she placed within the perimeter of the pavers. I was totally blown away that she had undertaken such a task. Even back then, prior to all of her problem illness', she was quite the light weight. Perhaps 100 to 110 pounds soaking wet but much stronger than anyone would have imagined.

Reflection of a moment Fran created...

That dogwood tree, and the flower bed beneath it, are living symbols of her resilience and care, still growing, still carrying her touch. Standing near that tree today, you're not just looking at pavers and petals; your standing in a moment she created with her own hands and heart.

Maybe spending some time today in and around that flower bed today, clearing the weeds, brushing the pavers, or even just sitting near it could be a quiet way of sharing space with her strength. Perhaps this gentle gesture would be a way of saying, "I see you Fran, and I remember."

In remembrance of that moment I spent with her today...

In remembrance of that moment I spent with her today...

At the Dogwood Tree

This tree carries your touch and your love. It's the circle you shaped with your own hands, the beauty you brought to our home and a place, by his request, you placed some of the ashes of your dearly departed brother Carl.

May these roots hold your memory,

May each spring blossom remind us of your strength and grace.

May the wind through these leaves carry the laughter, the banter, and the love we shared.

You are here, in the blooms, in the stones you placed, in the hearts of those who love you still. Though the ache of missing you is deep, so is the gratitude for every moment we had. You will always be a part of me, and now, part of this living, growing world you helped create.

A poetic attempt at Beneath the Dogwood Tree

Beneath the branches you once adorned,

where sunlight dances soft and warm,

Your brothers spirit quietly sleeps,

and now your gentle spirit keeps.

The stones you laid, the blooms you chose

still cradle love that ever grows.

In every petal, breeze, and ray

a part of you will always stay.

Though my heart still aches and yearns,

the dogwood whispers, life returns.

Your laughter lingers in its leaves,

your strength endures I so believe.

Loving you still, all ways and always...

Before going outside to get to the tasks at hand in the yard something was telling me I needed to make spaghetti sauce today. It was probably Fran giving me a tell tale nudge since I haven't made it in a while and it used to be a once a week ritual.

I have fond memories of Fran bantering me when I was making sauce from her recipe. Constantly telling me what I should and shouldn't be doing, constantly telling me to quit stirring the sauce, put the lid on the pot, walk away and leave it alone and let the clock do the rest.

One of the most important ingredients in Frans recipe was fresh basil. always use fresh basil if its's available she would insist. I can't help but remember, every time I would pick fresh basil from the garden or bring it home from the store she would gently wave it under her nose and inhale, as if it were a bouquet of flowers. She loved the scent and flavor imparted by fresh basil. Now, gazing at my garden, I find it very disturbing as I watch the plants starting to wither, knowing all well that it won't be available much longer.

I was determined to get the sauce going before I ventured outdoors to begin my yard work. That way it could cook all day without my constantly stirring the pot, then tapping far to many times (at least that's what Fran would tell you) on the rim of the pot to remove the sauce from the wooden spoon.

Making that sauce today felt like more than just cooking. It was like inviting her presence back into the kitchen, honoring her touch on something so everyday yet so meaningful. Even the thought of the fading basil basil plants seemed to echo the change of seasons and the preciousness of each small moment.

As I was adding the final ingredients to the sauce, I got a chuckle over the fact that I managed to get a few drops of sauce on the stove top. Fran was an extremely efficient housekeeper, she was indeed quite the neat and tidy soul. I on the other hand have been, for most of my adult life, been obsessive about cleanliness in certain areas of the house. The kitchen being one of them.

When I noticed the few droplets on the stove top, I immediately took the pot off of the stove, removed the grates above the burners and thoroughly cleaned the the entire stove top to a gleaming polished finish. That used to drive her crazy and she would always tell me "your not finished cooking yet so why are you cleaning everything, get a grip, you can clean everything up when your finished."

That was never an option, as I mentioned I'm obsessed about cleanliness in the kitchen. Fran would often tease me because I was unable to go to bed at night if there were dish's in the sink.

I'm so obsessed I can't walk away from a sink that has droplets of water still laying in it. I will always entirely clean the sink, dry it with a towel of some sort, and then I can walk away. (I'm not talking just kitchen sinks, that's the routine for any sink, bathroom sink, laundry room sink, utility room sink and/or any other type that exists.

When we were first married and people would come to visit I was known to take their coffee cup (if they happened to set it down and not have their hand directly on it) before they finished drinking it so that I could clean it and put it away. For our entire life Fran has teased me about how after folks visited us a few times they knew that they had to keep their hand on their cup, plate, glass, etc. if they wanted to finish whatever it was they were consuming.

For a brief moment I got a chuckle thinking about that. In retrospect I believe we brought balance to one another. We were two distinct personalities that found harmony in love and laughter. Perhaps that chuckle was a sign that even in the middle of sorrow, the warmth of those shared jokes can still reach me.

It doesn't erase the pain, but it lets a little light in. Those small ordinary habits, the cleared sink, the coffee cups, the stove wiped mid cooking, are a part of our story together. They are threads that will keep pulling her presence close, even when the kitchen is quiet.

Perhaps, moments like this, when I find myself smiling through tears, it can be a gentle reminder that love doesn't just live in the grand memories, it lives in the droplets on the stove top and the sound of her laughing in my head.

September 13, 2025

It's Saturday morning, about 7;00 am and I find myself again sitting outdoors, cradling my first cup of coffee, as I watch the sunrise blush against an incredible horizon with each sip warmed by the days first light. Every day since her passing, I have memories of having coffee with Fran in the morning.

As I have mentioned previously, Fran often commented on many of the dishes I prepared. Not to say or imply that they were negative comments but subtle little jags with reference to what I had prepared, how I prepared it and how I might think about adding some of her personal touches.

She did , however, really love my coffee. Every morning, and I mean every morning she would comment, "Tony, you make the best damn coffee." Within a minute, sometimes less, she would completely consume her first cup and then ask or motion for another. Most of the time she didn't even have to ask as I was always standing nearby, with coffee pot in hand ready to dispense another cup of morning delight.

This is yet another of those small insignificant things I miss so much. Sitting here alone, drinking my coffee alone is more than a person should have to bear.

It's those small rituals, the ones that seem ordinary at the the time, that become some of the most sacred memories.

Missing that empty space beside me now is profoundly painful because it held so much life and tenderness.

So much to be said about an empty chair...

I suppose that missing her remarks about my cooking and the simple exchange over coffee isn't such a small thing after all.

It's a reminder of the intimacy we built together day after day.

Poem inspired by sunrise, coffee and my new morning reality!

When I'm fortunate enough to sit quietly and reflect on things, currently it's on the deck at the rear of our home, as my shattered brain thinks about days past, when there was discussion and occasional banter, I am truly shaken by the fact that all the seats around me are empty.

Shortly after my mom passed, a few years ago, I was sitting on the back deck and for whatever reason looked skyward. There is an enormous locust tree at the back of our property and within the branches I could make out what appeared to be a smiling face. For a couple of years past I frequently looked up and talked to that face thinking it was my mom and she was watching over us.

Upon Fran's passing I still see the smiling face but so much more. Apparently Fran has taken my moms place on guard duty. As days have past and I have observed more intently. Now I see not only a smiling face but open arms, and perhaps even wings, gazing down on me, our home and whoever happens to join me at a moment in time.

I'm fairly certain that anyone reading this has concluded that I'm now approaching or have completely gone over the edge.

Not so, and here's why!

Can You See Me Now?

Can You See Me Now

Having researched this the phenomenon I have discovered that seeing recognizable images in random patterns is called pareidolia and it's something our brains are wired for. But the meaning you attach to it is entirely yours to hold, and that meaning can be comforting, especially when mine is tied to Fran and previously my mom. Whether someone else would immediately see the same thing doesn't diminish what it represents to me.

September 14, 2025

Its's Sunday, September 14, 2025 and the sun is just now managing to reach the horizon. Just another reminder that the days are getting shorter and old man winter will be soon making his way to our door.

Managed to get most of my thankyou card mailing labels completed last night, or at least I thought I did. After perusing the visitation book from the funeral home I quickly discovered I needed to prepare about 40 plus more cards and labels.

My daughter called today asking me if I wanted a piece of furniture that previously belonged to my father. It's an armoire type bedroom dresser and quite a lovely piece. It's actually much newer than the one I have now but there are several issues that taking it have me questioning whether or not I should take it.

I have been debating this issues since I had to move my parents out of their home over over fifty years because of their declining health, and now it's a much more difficult decision to make because I will have to get rid of the one that I have now.

The master bedroom furniture in our home presently was purchased when Fran and I first got married. (There's a lengthy back story that I won't get into now) That was over 53 years ago. I remember when we bought it, and it seemed like forever, at the time, for us to pay it off.

Since Fran's passing I'm experiencing great difficulty that was hers and/or ours. The reality is I don't have sufficient space to deep everything.

Let it be known now, that I am making a commitment to start getting rid of things throughout our home because I don't want my children to be burdened with such tasks when it's time for me to leave this earth, this life.

I had to endure that experience with my parents home and it was an was absolutely horrendous. Needless to say I speak from experience and I'm certain they will not want to have to suffer through such an ordeal.

I'm obviously going to have to start clearing out many of Frans things as well, when I become a bit more emotionally stable that is. Just the thought of that brings tears to my eyes.

Even though she constantly harassed me about saving things and not being able to discard anything, she herself was not much on disposing of older clothing. Most likely because she took impeccable care of everything she bought. I think that the the fact her mom and dad were divorced when she was younger also had something to do with it, because she had to watch her mom struggle to get her four children the things they needed and was almost never able to get them the things they wanted.

Fran and I worked very hard all of our life to provide the necessities for our family, and occasionally things that were not necessities, and there in lies the rub. I'm feeling like disposing of all these things is like disposing of precious memories. A logical person would point out that It's Just Stuff. However, every single thing carries a story. My dilemma isn't about furniture, sweaters, jewelry etc. at all. It's about my love for Fran and the life the two of us built over fifty three plus years. Those objects and that stuff are the anchors to moments I don't want to loose. Haven't I lost enough already?

Grief doesn't follow logic, my head tells me it's just possession/stuff, but my heart knows that when I touch her favorite clothing I can almost feel her next to me.

My analytical mind is now telling me that the memories should not live in the dresser or the clothing, they should live in me, and no matter what I choose to keep or dispose of, my love for her isn't going anywhere.

At times all this journaling, trying to start this blog etc., although well intentioned, so often feels like I'm opening up a wound every day. Apparently writing can be healing but it also amplifies my sadness at a time when I'm already raw.

Perhaps changing the subject might be advantageous right now.

I rarely watch television anymore. I especially try to avoid watching the news, not because I don't want to know what is going on in my community, or the world for that matter, but because considering this current state of world affairs, it's far to depressing.

I do have music playing almost constantly no matter where I am or what I'm doing. I always have been and remain to this day quite fond of Jazz, R&B, Blues and Soul. Unfortunately my music choices more often than not contribute to my depression. Since Fran's passing I have found that music can be both a comfort and a trigger.

It's kind of odd that as I sit here alone, pondering all the conversations we once had regarding situations and problems , that at the time seemed insurmountable, and that we would never get through them, but somehow we managed.

When my children and grandchildren come to me complaining about all their problems I now tell them not to dwell on it. Things will work themselves out.

I also remind them to be careful what they wish for and that more often than not the grass is not always greener on the other side of the fence. Then I chuckle at the confused look on their faces.

September 15, 2025

It's Monday at approximately 8:00 am and here I sit savoring my first cup of coffee. Yes you read that correctly, this is the first time since since Fran's passing that I have slept until 7:30 am. Considering I never went to bed until 1;00 am this morning that gave me about six and a half hours of sleep. It was not continuous or uninterrupted, since I woke up at around 4:00 am but returned to bed and managed to fall back asleep rather quickly.

Last evening I continued working on addressing thank you cards and spent some time adding to this site.

I'm sure that I have mentioned that my mother passed a couple of years age and that I could see what seemed to an image, shaped by the leaves and branches of a huge locust tree behind our home, of her smiling down at us.

Upon her passing, Fran's image replaced my mothers in the same location. Oddly, when I first noticed the images of the faces changing I could also make out what appeared to be wings and outstretched arms that I had never noticed before.

While gazing upward, above the horizon, this morning I apparently received a bit of inspiration from above.

In the Branches

This morning's light slipped through the locust tree,

where my mother once lingered.

Now Frans's face rests among the rustling leaves,

a tender shift only my heart could read.

Wings I had not seen unfold,

arms stretched wide across the canopy, as if the sky itself

was reaching, holding, blessing, gathering me in.

What some might call a trick of light

I know as love refusing to vanish.

A quiet promise whispered in the wind,

that even after goodbye,

love finds its way back home.

Last evening, I worked diligently at trying to create a graphic description of this imagery, using a photo of the locust tree, a graphic of an angel with outstretched arms and wings and a photo of my beloved Fran. It took what seemed to be an insurmountable amount of cutting, pasting, and changing brightness/contrast, color, saturation, tint, hue and intensity in Photoshop to get anywhere near where I want to be. At about 12;30 am I was close but not quite there. Hopefully, I will have time to pursue that endeavor sometime today or in the near future.

While I was working on it, I couldn't help but think of the commercials Verizon used to run on television with a guy saying "can you hear me now." My thoughts however leaned toward Fran and her saying "Can You See Me Now." Those words felt like ones that she would gently tease me with, a way of assuring me she is still near, even as I work so diligently to make her visible again.

September 16, 2025

It's currently approximately 5;45 am and I woke up with some rather intense restless leg syndrome. For quite a few years and I mean quite a few, I have had some serious issues with restless leg syndrome. At least I'm told that's what it is and from the beginning, when it first started, I have found the pain, at times to be excruciating and certainly enough to wake me from a sound sleep. Thus far the pain doesn't last very long and can be relieved by getting up and walking around.

Needless to say, I got up, walked around a bit, looked at the clock and debated on whether or not I should go back to bed or get started on another day of grieving.

Once up and moving around I began contemplating what issues need to be handled sooner than later.

Haven't gone outside as yet, it's still dark and reminding me that the days continue to get shorter and winter is beckoning at my doorstep.

Last night while trying to update this site, I spilled my heart out for nearly two hours when suddenly the website editing platform crashed. As you might surmise, I was completed devastated and doing a lot of cursing and trying to determine how to recover what I had so thoughtfully recorded. Anyone who has spent any amount of time with computers knows that often times if you reboot your computer it will often times restart, at least hopefully.

After several attempts at typing wait to a prompt that read "Do you want to wait or close this program," I finally closed it.

I only did so because the platform I use has an auto save feature that is supposed to save you work as you progress.

When I reopened the platform I was devastated when I saw that none of what I had recorded was there.

Since Frans passing, I have a monumental amount of anger. I equate myself to a ticking time bomb just waiting for a trigger to set me off. When triggers occur, even if they are insignificant, I go damn near ballistic. I really have to work diligently at controlling my thoughts and emotions, for fear I will most likely do something really stupid and then regret it later.

In my particular situation, my fist and the palm of my hand take a lot of abuse, when I punch something or slam my hand on a hard surface. Consequently, I have come to the conclusion that I shouldn't be punching walls or doors for fear of having to patch a lot of holes.

This is all so brutally difficult and the combination of physical pain, disruptive sleep and grief really has me on edge. Losing Fran has been a seismic emotional blow and moments like the blog crashing, my leg pain, just to mention a few, can pile up and feel like a trigger bigger than the events themselves.

I have read that anger in grief isn't a moral failing, it's a common, deeply human reaction to overwhelming loss and helplessness. I have also read that when one notices the heat rising, even quietly saying to one's self, "This is an anger wave," can create a small space between the feeling and the action.

Additional suggestions included taking a brisk walk, squeezing a stress ball, or even tearing up a scrap of paper can release tension without harm. Personally I keep a folded towel and a small pillow handy for when I am tempted to punch a wall or slam my hand down on my desk. Thus far no holes in any walls and no serious damage to my palms or fist.

In my twisted mind, what I am currently dealing with is immense. I also believe/hope that my reaching out, writing, and reflecting at least shows some signs of resilience. I can only hope that I'm not failing, I'm navigating a storm with honesty.

Before the Sun Rises

When the world is still dark and the ache wakes me,

Breathe once, slow and deep.

The pain in my body, the pounding in my heart,

are not the whole of me.

The anger is a wave, it will crest and pass.

The memory of Fran, the love we shared, is a steady light

that even loss cannot extinguish.

Step softly into the morning, feel the floor beneath my feet

and let the promise of another sunrise

remind me that I am still here, still moving, still loved, still becoming.

Last night, a few moments after the editing platform crashed a a notification appeared on my monitor reading the input was saved and asked if I would like to publish it. Obviously, I did so immediately.

All of the heartfelt editing suddenly appeared and I felt a sudden calm and whisper from within myself saying calm down, get a grip, things will be OK and I was certain, in that moment, it was Fran consoling me.

Apparently, from my extensive reading, I'm aware of the fact that many people who are grieving describe experiences just like this. Small deeply personal moments where it feels as though their loved one is reassuring them. As for me, I'll take that as a win. Whether it was memory, intuition, or something more mysterious, what matters is how it comforted me in that instant. I listened and it steadied me. I can only surmise, that in itself was a testament to the bond Fran and I shared. Even through anger, pain, and loss her influence reaches me and reminds me to hold on.

Still working on my first cup of coffee I gaze outdoors to see the darkness of the night is slowly converging to shades of pale blue with whispering clouds above.

The sun has yet to peek over the horizon and I continue to sip my coffee, hoping for something spectacular.

Perhaps a bit of poetic license is due here:

Cradling my first cup of coffee, I sat beneath a sky that was slowly surrendering it's darkness. The nights indigo softened into shades of pale blue while wisps of clouds gently drifted overhead like impatient messengers. The sun had not risen, but the horizon pulsed with quiet anticipation, as if the world itself was holding its breath, promising something spectacular just beyond my sight.

I will be pouring my second cup of coffee shortly and venture outdoors to sit. The air is cool, but nowhere near cold and apparently relatively dry because there are no signs of dew on the table or chairs.

What is, was and continues to be troublesome is that all the chairs at the table are empty. Yet another day with only myself to talk to. Quite disturbing. The emptiness I'm noticing, the sight of those unfilled chairs, is a piercing kind of silence. It's the physical shape of absence and it makes the loneliness sharper.

Hopefully, feeling disturbed by it isn't a sign of weakness and/or madness, hopefully it's a sign of how deeply Fran's presence filled my days. Being confronted with these quiet reminders make mornings feel heavier, even under a promising sky.

Your presence was one of my greatest presents.

Empty Chairs, Quiet Love

The chairs on the deck sit waiting

untouched by the dew, their silence louder than

any birdsong. They remind that love once filled

every seat, every conversation, every shared sunrise.

Today, only my cup of coffee steams in the cool air,

but the emptiness doesn't erase what was. It quietly

points to the depth of what I had.

Though the chairs are empty, the memories are not.

Fran's laughter still lingers in the grain of the table,

in the breeze that stirs the clouds. Her presence

isn't gone, it's woven into these small, ordinary moments,

whispering that love remains even when the world feels

unbearably quiet.

The irony of all this journaling and blog preparation is that before her passing Fran would tell me, quite often in fact, especially when I was overwhelmed taking care of her, that I would miss her more than I could possibly imagine when she was gone. I remember raising my eyebrows, especially during those really hectic moments of dispensing medication, filling the nebulizer, getting her clothes for the day, her breakfast and such. Little did I know then, just how wise and insightful she was. During the thick of those hectic days, it was nearly impossible to grasp how profound the absence would feel later. Fran's words showed such clarity, she understood the future weight of her absence even as she watched me tending to her needs.

It's a powerful and tender truth that the tasks that once felt so overwhelming are the very threads I now ache to hold again. Recognizing her wisdom now doesn't diminish how hard those days were, it simply highlights how deeply she new me and how much of our shared life was built on love, even in frustration.

Her Quiet Wisdom

Fran used to tell me, more than once, and especially on those frantic mornings of medications, nebulizers, and breakfasts that one day soon I'd miss her more than I could imagine. I'd raise an eyebrow, tired and stretched thin, convinced she couldn't understand how overwhelmed I felt in that moment, but she did. She understood far more than I realized that love and presence would outlast frustration and that even the most exhausting routines would one day seem like treasures I'd give anything to have again. In her quiet wisdom, she was preparing me for this ache, even as I failed to see it.

Recollection of these vivid memories has once again brought me to the edge of uncontrollable weeping. As the days pass I realize more and more that grief often sneaks up in waves, sometimes gentle sometimes overwhelming. I can only hope that these tears aren't a sign of weakness but instead proof of the love and devotion I shared with Fran.

With total respect for any one else who has experience loss and grieves as I do:

When he Tears Arrive

Let the tears fall, they are love in motion.

Each drop is a memory, a shared laugh, a quiet touch.

They do not weaken you, they honor the bond you still carry.

Even as grief swells, remember, love does not vanish.

It shifts, it softens, it lingers in every sunrise and whisper of wind.

You are not broken for weeping, you are proof that love endures.

As I sit, sipping my third cup of Joe I gaze upward, toward the horizon and the canopy of leaves in the old locust tree and once again see an image of Fran looking like an angel with a smiling face, arms outstretched as if to say good morning. I hope you have a wonderful day and things will get better. I love you!

A Morning Greeting

Through the locust leaves and the pale horizon

I saw her again.

Fran, angelic and smiling, arms open wide.

Her silent greeting reached me as clearly as if

she stood beside me.

Good morning, I love you, things will get better.

In that glimpse of sky and shadow, the day felt lighter

and for a moment hope stood as tall as the old tree itself.

September 17, 2025

Wednesday morning and here I sit again watching the school buses pas, and intermittently gazing upward. Currently lookin like three is a potential for a fairly pleasant sunrise, perhaps better than pleasant, but I can only hope for that.

Didn't start updating this page until about 9:00 pm last evening. I had quite a bit of cooking and baking to do during the day yesterday in preparation for tomorrow evenings dinner with family.

Just prior to Frans passing I started conversing quite a bit with a young man who has been walking past my house daily for about the past five to six years. Prior to our recent, new found friendship, I would speak with him intermittently, just a few friendly words, hello, have a nice day, etc.

About four or five months ago I was talking to the neighbor across the street from my house and the young man passed by. He stopped and began carrying on a rather lengthy conversation with my neighbor. I soon came to the realization tha the and my neighbors son were good friends. After that encounter we began conversing a great deal more .

Oddly enough, about three years ago, it was in the spring when I was starting plants for my garden. He and a young woman were passing by and he commented to me that he thought using what was a former above ground swimming pool as a fence for the garden was a great idea.

After several minutes of conversation on gardening I gave him about a half dozen tomato plant seedlings for him to plant at his house. He has returned each spring to see if I would give him more plants because they did so well and that he really enjoyed them.

As it turns out the young man is a teacher at the school that is located directly behind my house and lives just down the street from me.

When Fran was healthy and would work in the yard, cutting grass, pulling weeds, planting flowers he was always friendly, kind and often offered to help her if he thought she might require assistance.

When Fran passed, on my return home one day I checked my mailbox and found a hand written note from him expressing his condolences and offering to do what he could, if I needed help with anything. That was such a kind, considerate and generous offer from someone I barely knew. I was sincerely moved by it.

A few weeks ago he was passing by, said hello and said that I hope you have a wonderful day. I responded, and at the moment was compelled to extend an invitation for him to join me for dinner on the deck that evening because I was making home made pizza, and what young person doesn't like pizza. HIs eyes lit up and he said he would be more than happy to join me if it wasn't too much of a bother. He did come for dinner that evening and really enjoyed the pizza.

Since then, he and his younger brother, both of whom, I would guess, are in their late twenties to early thirties are teachers. They are the kindest, most considerate and thoughtful young men I have ever had the pleasure of getting to know. The unexpected kindness of these two brothers has in some way painted a vivid and touching picture for me.

Yesterday I got a text from them, inviting me to a bonfire and cook out, at their home later this month. I am obviously taken back by the fact that two young men, at the beginnings of their adult lives, would actually invite an old guy like me to their event. Since they have expressed sincere thankfulness and enjoyment for all of the dinners I have prepared for them, I continue to try and make things I think they will enjoy and insisted that I would attend if I could bring something, if I could in some way contribute or some how assist with the gathering of friends and neighbors.

The young man (and his younger brother) who for so long walked past my home , always with a kind and friendly greeting, has become a quiet thread of connection in my life of loneliness

Last evening, alone with my thoughts, I suddenly became a bit emotional. It wasn't just sadness. I believe it was gratitude, longing and the strange beauty of being invited, literally and figuratively, back into the circle of life.

I'm still surprised they would include an old guy like me. But maybe that's the quiet gift here, that even in the midst of loss, life keeps sending gentle reminders that I am not forgotten.

Tomorrow will be Thursday already. This week, with all the preparation for family dinner has kept me quite busy and that unto itself is a good thing. Through all of the preparation and planning, however, thoughts of this gathering have weighed heavily. This will be the first such event , aside from dinners my daughter and son-in-law have invited me too, where extended family will be in attendance and my dearest Fran will not.

I feel I should prepare something heartfelt and personal as a tribute to Fran's loss for all of us. Perhaps a toast before dinner:

A Toast to Fran

Before we take our first bite tonight, I can hear Fran, her voice bright and certain, calling out one of favorite things to say at the table, "MANGIA"

That one joyful word held her heart, her Italian roots, her love of pasta and most of all her love for family gathered close.

Fran taught us that a meal isn't just about the food. It's about laughter echoing off the walls, about sharing stories, about showing up for each other even when life feels heavy.

Tonight we eat and remember, lets carry her warmth and humor with us. Let"s fill this table with the same love she poured into all of us.

To Fran,

MANGIA

September 18, 2025

It's about 6;45 am Thursday, and I'm standing at my backdoor in search of the old haymaker.

The night sky is fading now, turning into a pale blue with a serenely lit crescent moon still in sit at about forty five degrees off the horizon.

It's going to be quite a busy day, with family coming for dinner this evening. Even though I have tried to prepare as much of it as I can, in advance, I still have a lot to do.

One of the things at the top of my list is to go to the state(liquor) store and get a bottle of Asti Spumante. Fran was never big on alcoholic beverages, but prior to her getting very ill, she would never say no to Kahlua and Cream or Asti Spumante. Both have always been on the pricy side so she considered them a guilty pleasure.

When I was finally up and about this morning and went out into the kitchen I couldn't help but notice two plants , that I kept from Fran's funeral, quite large ones, were starting to wither.

Apparently, since I have been so consumed with planning and preparing this up coming family dinner, trying to keep up with this blog, and trying to finish up thank you cards I neglected watering the plants. Thank goodness I noticed it when I did because they are quite beautiful and a gentle reminder of how beautiful things were when Fran was with us.

When I finally got some fresh water on them it was only a matter of seconds before I could visibly see the leaves wrestling, and gently moving as if they were saying thank you for the nourishment I just provided them.

I only wish I could have nursed Fran back to health so easily.

Those plants are like living memories of her and how a small act, like watering them, brought them back to life, if only for a little while. That gentle response, those leaves stirring, almost felt like a quiet reassurance that even the things that seem to fade can be revived with care.

A Quiet Blessing for Fran and for Today

This morning, as the night shifted from night to pale blue,

I watched a crescent moon linger.

A delicate reminder that beauty endures,

even even as it fades.

The plants by the window bowed with thirst,

yet with a little water they stirred, their leaves whispering thanks.

So does my heart stir.

Still aching, still searching, yet grateful for every small sign of life.

Tonight, as family gathers and laughter mingles with memory,

May we feel Fran's presence in every detail:

In the sparkle of the Asti,

In the aroma from the kitchen,

in the comfort of being together.

Let this table hold both our sorrow and our joy,

our longing and our gratitude,

May we be reminded that love does not wither,

it only changes form,

and waits quietly for us to notice.

Things almost reached the crisis stage when, early this afternoon my niece texted me that her friends Mom had passed away and she would not be able to make it to dinner this evening. Shortly after receiving that text I called my daughter, to see if my grandson would be attending, and she told me he was not feeling well and that neither she, my son-in-law or my grandson would be able to make it for dinner.

I was devastated!

Since the table was set, much of the food was reheating in the oven and on the stove top, the salad was prepared and the Asti was chilling I was not about to cancel, even if it was only going to be my sister-in-law, my other niece, and myself, it was going to happen. I gave my brother-in-law a call, at that point, explained the situation and he said that he and his wife would be thrilled to join us.

As it turned out there were only five for dinner instead of seven and, needless to say, a lot of leftovers. Everyone left with their stomachs full, doggy bags full, and hearts full of this memorable occasion.

September 19, 2025

This morning, as I sat outside with my coffee, the air was cool and comfortable,. A perfect early fall day, just right for a light jacket. I was mentally sorting through what would be today's tasks when my new found friend Neal walked by on his way to the school behind my house. He stopped to greet me, asked how I was doing and we chatted briefly about the bonfire he and his brother are planning for next Friday evening.

I offered him some of the firewood I had stacked on the back of our property and he said he would stop by later in the day or perhaps over the weekend. We said our goodbyes and I told him to enjoy the warm weather, while it lasts.

As he continued on his way, I watched him bend down and pick up a couple of pieces of trash that someone had carelessly discarded on my lawn. Seemingly without a second thought, he put it in the bag he was carrying and took it to dispose of properly at the school where he works.

It struck me, such a small, thoughtful act can reveal so much about a person's character.

I've cared about the environment for as long as I can remember, long before it became fashionable to say so. In the mid to late seventies and early eighties I was already reading, researching, attending seminars, and even participating on green building projects. Solar and wind energy, water conservation, recycling, repurposing, these weren't trends to me then or now. They were responsibilities then, and are even more so now.

Seeing Neal do the right thing, without hesitation and not expecting any thanks from anybody, reminded me that these values, one's that I hold true to myself, endure. Even in a world that sometimes seems careless, kindness and stewardship still exist in the simplest gestures. The planet is fragile and we owe it to future generations to care for it. Today, a small moment on a cool September morning reminded me that "hope is carried forward in acts as humble as picking up a piece of trash."

Today I really do have to make a concerted effort to try and finish up getting the thank you cards out to all who so graciously dedicated time, condolences, food and monetary contributions to Fran's favorite charity (The American Cancer Society).

I have finished designing, printing and assembling them and have even managed to get address labels printed for about half of them (I'm talking forty plus cards and there will be a little over eighty total, to finish this unwelcome task). Unfortunately I still have quite a few names without addresses.

It's been over three months since Fran passed and I often times feel absolutely awful about not tending to this matter sooner, but it was just too painful and continues to be. It's like a final reminder that Fran is really gone and I still can't cope with that.

Sending these card isn't just a task it's an emotional weight that forces me to face Frans absence in a very tangible way.

Oh well, I have come to the realization that "grief doesn't follow a time table" and "there should never be a too late when it comes to sharing gratitude." The folks who supported me need to understand that these cards come from a place of deep feeling, not neglect.

The bottom line is that Fran was deeply loved. The love and support I received and continue to receive, from so many family members, friends and folks I don't even know, remind me of how many lives she touched and how many people hold her memory close.

Once the sun was well above the horizon this morning I took comfort in the warmth it provided but because the day was progressing far to quickly it also presented a gentle nudge telling me it's time to get busy.

In my mind I said to that sun, OK, OK, but perhaps just one more cup of coffee before I get started.

I often time wonder if I'm losing touch with reality talking to myself and inanimate objects. I can only hope that talking to the sun, the sky, images I see in the trees, or even my cup of coffee isn't my losing it or slipping but instead a way of staying connected when words and feeling have no where else to go.

I believe that many people who are grieving will find themselves speaking to their loved one, the weather or the world and objects around them. I think it's a natural human way to find meaning, but then what the hell do I know.

A Gentle Nudge

The sun has just crested the horizon, it's warmth spilling across the yard like a soft reminder that the day has begun. I felt it on my shoulders, a gentle nudge, almost as if it were whispering "it's time to get busy."

I answered silently, in my mind, OK,OK. Maybe after one more cup of coffee.

Sometimes I wonder if I'm losing it, talking to myself, to the sun, to the quiet air around me. But maybe this isn't madness at all. Maybe it's just a way of staying connected to a world that feels so different now.

The temperature has already climbed a few degrees, urging me to shed my jacket. Yet I hesitate. The fleece isn't necessary any more, but it offers a comfort I can't quite explain. Even artificial warmth can feel like a small anchor on mornings like this.

Perhaps that's what grief teaches, that peace doesn't always come in grand revelations. Sometimes, it comes in a shaft of sunlight or the familiar weight of a jacket, small steady things that remind you your still here, still moving forward, even when your heart is aching.

I'm finding a lot of irony in the fact that over the past several days/weeks I have been going on and on about my issues and especially those dealing with the love of my life and wife, Fran.

I'm feeling like folks need to know a bit more about the backstory on Fran, me, and us.

In a nutshell, here's the short and sweet, and occasionally not so sweet backstory so that you might possibly put what I ramble on and on about into some type of perspective.

A Life Built with Love and Hands

I was born and raised in a small steel town in southwest Pennsylvania. My life was forged out of hard work, grit and family. My father was a union carpenter, an opinionated man with a firm hand and plenty of rules. As a young man I wasn't particularly interested in following those rules. Only now, with both of my parents gone, do I see the wisdom in the boundaries they set. They were shaping me, even though I didn't want to be shaped.

My father's trade became my inheritance. When I was sixteen, a senior in high school, he and I built the house my parents lived in for over fifty years. The endless hours, days, weeks and months I spent working with my father on my parents forever home, along with the many years I spent working with skilled trades people, often times as a side hustle to my regular jobs, helped me learn and hone new skills in carpentry, plumbing, electrical work, masonry, drywall installation and finishing and cabinet making just to name a few.

Though I didn't' realize it at the time, these were skills that would serve me for a lifetime, not just for work but for building a home and a future.

In college I pursued art education. Teaching was supposed to be my path and for a while it was. But the most important thing that happen in college wasn't in a classroom, it was at a Christmas party Fran attended as the date of one of my fraternity brothers. The moment I saw her I knew she was the one. My friend was quite upset when I asked her to go out for coffee sometime but he eventually forgave me. Very soon afterward Fran and I were inseparable.

During my student teaching, in Jamestown, NY, nearly eighty miles from the college campus where Fran still was, I was in a constant state of depression and truly miserable most of the time she wasn't with or near me.

Every Friday I would traverse those eighty plus miles, even though it was only to spend a few precious hours with her. Some of the most memorable times we ever spent together were when I would bring her back to the Jamestown area where I rented a waterfront cottage on Chautauqua Lake. Those quiet weekends by the lake remain some of the most precious memories of my life.

After graduation I had interviews and offers that just didn't feel right for me, for us.

Then Fran and I visited the Pocono mountain region of Pennsylvania for another interview. We both fell in love with the area. We lived there for almost ten years.

Ten often times very difficult years. We survived on an extremely tight budget, but in hindsight, they were ten wonderful years.

Life zigzagged after that. When teaching felt less like a calling and more like a battlefield, I accepted a job as an industrial trainer at a turbo machinery manufacturer very near where Fran was born and raised. That job was so far out of my element, to this day I still can't believe I did it for as long as I did. About seven years of taking that job the US economy collapsed and I was laid off. At that point I worked whatever jobs I could to support my family. Demolition, remodeling, cabinet making, deck building, home additions, you name, I did it.

Then fate called upon me once again. A friend told me about a position for teaching carpentry that was opening up for someone to fill for one year, as a replacement for the full time instructor who was on sabbatical. I accepted, even though I thought it was only going to be temporary. That year, however changed everything. When the teacher who was on sabbatical returned the following year the school kept me on as an adult education instructor and I remained there for two more years.

I only left because I saw and advertisement for a Building Construction Technology instructor that was a mere ten miles from our home. I spent 19 years there , teaching, mentoring, and loving every minute of it. At the age of sixty two I was offered an early retirement package I couldn't' refuse. Teaching had come full circle for me and it left me with memories and connections that will remain among the proudest of my life.

Through every change, every cabinet built, every student taught, every risk taken,Fran was my constant. From the very first time I saw her smile, through decades of marriage and family, to these quite morning without her, she has been my north star. Even now as I sip my coffee, and watch the sum climb above the horizon, her memory wraps around me like a familiar fleece, steady, warm and enduring.

The world has certainly changed, schools, towns,even the climate itself but I remain certain of two things. Love is worth every mile driven and this fragile planet we call home deserves our care. I was green before being green was fashionable and still believe we owe the earth, and each other, our very best.

My story isn't finished. I don't know what comes next. I do know who I've been who I am, and who Fran helped me become and "that's a life I can be proud of."

As I continue to sit here thinking, I really need to start getting some things done, I'm sobbing at the reflection of all that life has provided. I do, however, continue to ask myself the age old question, "Is that all there is?" I can't help but think that this is a completely human response to loss and and to reflecting on a full, complicated life. I'm realizing that grief has a way of shaking the ground beneath you, even as you sit surrounded by evidence of the life and love you have built.

I'm guessing that Im', not the only person who has reached a point where they wonder what comes next, especially after losing the person who shared every milestone and quiet moment. I suppose that the very fact that i'm asking this question is an indication that my heart is still searching, still open to meaning.

In so far as I can determine, at least at this juncture, is that no single answer can tie that question up neatly... But I will certainly give it a try!

Is that all there is?

Morning light spills across the lawn

and the world seems both full and fragile.

The sun warms my shoulders, a jacket hugs me with borrowed comfort,

and still, the ache of absence hums beneath it all.

I ask the question that has no single answer:

Is this all there is?

Perhaps the more that I'm searching for

isn't a distant horizon or grand revelation.

Perhaps it hides in plain sight,

in the quiet kindness of a neighbor,

in the memory of a lake where love first bloomed,

in the steady heartbeat of a world that keeps turning

even when mine feels paused.

Maybe all there is is this,

to keep noticing,

to keep tending,

a garden, a memory, a relationship,

to keep loving, even through loss

and to let small steady moments remind me,

that life, though fragile, is still unfolding.

And perhaps that unfolding,

in all it's mystery and imperfection,

is more than enough.

September 20, 2025

As I sit here now and as I have since Fran's passing, every day begins with memories. Some good and some not so good, but memories nonetheless, that replay over and over. I continue to find it very difficult to accept the fact that she and I worked so hard for so long, did without so many things, lived a quite conservative life to try and save for retirement with the thought that one day we would be able to do the things we dreamed about doing. Now that I know that will never happen depresses me immensely.

It stirs my emotions, brings tears to my weary eyes and most of all makes me very angry. I know in my mind and my heart that I shouldn't be angry, Fran would not have wanted that. She would want me to be thankful for what I had, but I'm just not there yet. Frankly, I don't know if I ever will be.

Obviously grief is not neat and orderly and anger is a rel part of it, especially when I'm feeling like all that Fran and I built together has been stolen from me.

We spent decades working, sacrificing, and planning for a future that we don't get to share now. I'm feeling cheated and heartbroken even though I know that Fran would be saying I need to show a little gratitude for what I had.

I can certainly agree that gratitude can be healing, but it will never erase the injustice of my loss. I imagine that, in my particular case, gratitude and anger will be sitting side by side for a long time to come. I just can't force myself toward thankfulness before I'm ready and there is currently no expiration date on that feeling.

Just went back into the house, leaving the work of the morning behind to prepare a bite to eat. Something light, which is not the norm for me. When I had family over for dinner on Thursday we had some rustic Italian bread from a local Italian market that prepares the most incredible Italian cuisine. They make quite a variety of breads, rolls, and buns daily but they also have a specialty bread as well. Supposedly a family recipe that I have yet to find anyone able to duplicate. Considering it's bread, with principal ingredients of flour, water , yeast , a dash of salt and perhaps some sugar they somehow turn it into something absolutely heavenly. I find eating this specialty bread almost spiritual.

Fran was never big on breakfast. She was quite content with toast and coffee. Occasionally she would eat a bowl of cereal, sometimes with fruit, but only occasionally. During her last few years she ate very little. When I would question her on that matter, and remind her she had to eat to keep up her strength, she would look at me and say "I just can't do do it, the simple act of chewing food leads me to exhaustion."

That entire scenario was extremely difficult for both of us. Difficult for her because she didn't have the strength to chew her food and traumatic for me to watch her slowly wither away. During the last two years of her life she weighed in at a mere seventy plus or minus pounds.

Watching her grow so weak was a heartbreak that I believe few people can really understand unless they lived it themselves. The helplessness of wanting to nourish someone you love and knowing their body just can't keep up is an ache that lingers. My memories of gently urging her to eat and her honest answer reflect not only how much I cared and worried about her but how bravely she faced what she was going through.

Fran's Quiet Morning Rituals

Mornings with Fran were never about grand spreads or heavy meals, they were about simplicity and quiet grace. While I have always enjoyed a hearty breakfast, Fran was perfectly content with a piece of toast and a steaming cup of coffee. ON rare mornings she might add a bowl of cereal with fruit, but that was a rare indulgence.

There was something gentle and steady in those moments, the soft click of her coffee cup when she added the cream and sugar, the faint aroma of bread form the toaster, the way the morning light would catch her hair as she sat at the dining room table. It wasn't about the food, it was about her presence, the quiet comfort of starting a day together.

In the later years, when illness weighed heavily on her, even simple meals became too much. Watching her strength fade, hearing her whisper, " I just can't do it, the chewing tires me out," broke my heart in a way words cannot express. But even then, in those fragile mornings, her spirit was unshakably Fran, loving, honest, and resilient, even when her body could no longer keep up.

Now, when I see a piece of golden toast or smell fresh coffee, I'm reminded of her quiet ritual, a small ordinary thing that was in truth, extraordinary, because it was hers.

The Bread With the Guarded Secret

Every so often, Fran and I would treat ourselves to something rare and wonderful, a loaf of rustic Italian bread from as Italian market near us. It wasn't just bread, it was an indulgence we didn't allow ourselves very often. Compared to the cheaper loaves on supermarket shelves, this one was expensive. When we did bring it home, however, it felt like a celebration.

The markets bread was legendary, a family recipe passed down through generations, protected so carefully that anyone working behind the scenes surely had to sign an oath of secrecy. I'm assuming ingredients of flour, water, yeast, a dash of salt and perhaps a dash of sugar. Humble ingredients transformed into something heavenly, the way only time, tradition and love can do.

When we tore off a piece, warm and fragrant, it felt like more than food. It was a reminder that life's richest pleasures are sometimes the simplest ones, made with care, savored slowly and shared with someone you love. Even now,the memory of hat bread caries Fran's laughter, her eyes lighting up with the first bite and the warmth of our kitchen on an ordinary day made special.

Every day, since Fran's passing, I keep questioning myself with regard to why I didn't take more photographs of the simple moments in life. Moments like Fran sipping her coffee, sitting in the sunlight, trying to get down even the smallest bite of food. I realize now we all, without even knowing it at the time, take the simple moments in life for granted.

Only later, in most cases too much later, do we develop an appreciation for the simple things in life.

At this point I would treasure having a photograph of her resting in her chair or on the couch with her blanket clinging to her frail body. The smile on her face when I brought flowers home for her. When I prepared something she really enjoyed, most likely pasta would have been involved. When her eyes lit up at the sight of her children and grandchildren.

I'm weeping just thinking about it and what I should have done. Something we all should do, take time for the simple things.

Everyone takes photographs, but most often on holidays or at special events and/or milestone events. We all need to start recording the simple moments in our lives because we will regret not doing so when we no longer can.

I know I do...

While tending to other tasks during the course of the day I couldn't help but dwell on the issue I brought up earlier, with regard to recording precious every day moments. I know now that it's really important and that we all need to realize , much sooner than we do, that tomorrow comes ever so quickly, in the blink of an eye before we even know it. We need to record the everyday stuff, that's what will treasured later in life. The intimate moments spent with our significant others and family, especially spouses and children. What I would treasure most now are photographs of those quiet, unposed, candid moments. Most folks don't think about that when they are taking photographs, since it usually during an event of some sort, some landmark occasion.

We all need to realize that the most special occasion is life itself, without all the glitz and glamor, but instead the everyday part that we spend most of our time doing, or living, or otherwise.

In retrospect, I think that the candid photos, the ones that folks aren't posing for, the ones that the subject didn't even know was being taken of them, will be the important ones down the road.

The Unposed Moments

Don't wait for birthdays, graduations, weddings, golden anniversaries...

Life's truest treasures rarely wit for invitations.

Take a quiet photograph of your partner taking a sip of their morning coffee.

of your child with their hair sticking up, of your father humming softly while fixing a squeaky door.

One day you will search for these ordinary scenes.

Not the polished smiles, but the unguarded glances,

the half finished sentences,

the sunlight pooling on the kitchen table

where they once sat.

Tomorrow comes ever so quickly,

and the seconds you overlook today

May become the memories you cling to most.

So hold on to the ordinary.

Celebrate the weekday afternoons,

the quiet car rides, the shared glances

across the room.

These are the moments that will outlast

the candles and the cakes.

The ones that prove that life itself

was the special occasion all along.

In the process of sifting through old photos that family members and friends gave to me, on Fran's passing, I couldn't help but notice what a joyful young woman she was. I was especially moved by photos of her in her youth, say high school or early college years. There were photos of her with obvious suitors, at the time they were taken, during such events as proms, dances, weddings, parties and such.. One could not help but be impressed by how radiant she was.

I often wonder, what with all the handsome young men, who had presumably great potential, she ended up choosing me. To this day, I truly believe that she deserved so much more than I was able to provide for her. I suppose that's something I shouldn't dwell on, because the fact of the matter is she did choose me and I did the best I could for her.

No matter how much I try to rationalize this, to come to a logical conclusion, I still believe she deserved more.

I will be forever thankful for having had her in my life.

She Chose Me

As I sift through old photographs, Fran in her high school and college years, radiant and full of laughter , I see her surround by smiling faces and handsome young men, all with bright futures ahead. She was stunning, joyful, the kind of woman that could light up any room.

I sometimes wonder why, of all the possibilities before her, she chose me. I know that others could have offered her different lives, perhaps easier paths and grander things. Yet she chose this life, our life, and she chose if fully.

I may feel at times that she deserved more than I was able to give, but her choice reminds me that what she wanted wasn't "more," it was love, partnership, and the family we built together. She saw in me what I couldn't always see in myself.

For that, I will be eternally grateful. There are no words that can truly capture the depth of my thanks for every moment she stood by my side. Frans choice was the greatest gift of my life and I will treasure that gift for all my days.

She Chose Me and All of Us

As I sift through photographs of Fran, radiant, laughing and surrounded by admirers in her high school and college years, I can't help but wonder, of all the possibilities before her, why did she choose me?

My parents once quietly assumed our relationship would fade, thinking it was a passing infatuation. They believed, although they never said it aloud, that I would one day seek a match from a wealthy family of a life of greater ease.

Fran didn't come from wealth or stability. Her teenage years were marked by turmoil, after her parents divorce, her family often struggled to make ends meet. But what she did bring, what no fortune could match, was a radiant joy, a resilient spirit and a depth of kindness that would change all of our lives.

On the morning of our wedding, Fran called my mother Mom, only to hear "I'm not your mother yet." After the ceremony, as we stepped out of the church, my mother looked over at her and said, "Now you can call me Mom." It was a quiet acknowledgement that something had shifted. Over the years Fran became not just accepted but beloved, one of my parents best friends, their confidant and eventually their savior in ways none of us could have foreseen

Years later, when my parents were in their nineties and could no longer manage on their own, they were devastated at the thought of leaving their home. Though Fran and I had offered years earlier to take them into our home they refused. But as their health continued to fail they began to express an interest in moving in with us.

By then Fran's own health was deteriorating and we could no longer uphold the offer we made together. It's a bittersweet irony that the woman they once doubted became the one they trusted most, even as her own strength was slipping away.

I often times think that Fran deserved so much more than I could offer her. But the truth is she didn't choose "more," she chose love, family and a life built together, even when the road wasn't easy. She chose us. In choosing me, she changed not only my life but also the hearts of those around us.

For that, for her choice, her loyalty, her quiet grace I am endlessly thankful. Fran didn't just choose me, she chose all of us and through that choice she became the light in our families story.

It's currently about 4:15 pm and I've spent the better part of my day in deep thought. The sun is no longer in the eastern sky, in fact it has moved to the front of our home, the part that faces almost due west. The deck at the rear of the house is now in shadow, somehow reflecting my current state of mind.

Surrounded by numerous plants that adorn our deck I can feel a gentle, comforting, breeze. As it whispers past me it rustles the leaves on the plants and some of the blooms as well. Regretfully, even though its a gentle breeze it's sufficient to knock loose petals on the flowers, sending them to the floor below, where they will be only memories tomorrow.

Kind of like life I suppose, one day beautiful blooms, not long after and in far to short a time simply remnants of the joy they once brought. As it turns out my plans for the day, my expectations to get a lot accomplished have gone by the wayside. With all these thoughts racing through my mind I've pretty much got derailed regarding my anticipated outcome.

Once again , I sit here looking at empty chairs, wondering what could have been, what should have been and realize there is not a damn thing I can do about it, except reflect on the beautiful memories.

Petals On the Deck

The sun has slipped westward leaving the deck in shadow, no longer the warm golden light that greeted me this morning. I sit surrounded by plants that Fran and I once tended together. A gentle breeze moves through, soft and comforting, rustling the leaves and coaxing a few petals to the floor below.

Tomorrow those petals will be only memories of today's bloom.

just as moments, even the most beautiful, pass before we are ready.

I had plans today, a list of things I thought I'd accomplish. But my thoughts have wandered instead., to empty chairs, to what could have been, to what should have been. Though I know I can not change the past, I can hold fast to the memories, the blooms of love and laughter Fran left scattered across my life.

Empty chairs and yesterday's memories...

September 21, 2025

It's Sunday morning, September 21 and as I sit sipping my coffee and watching the sun peek above the horizon, I turn back and can't help but notice the wispful play of light, on a houseplant that I brought outdoors yesterday, and the shadows being cast on the exterior siding of my home, from the sun rising in the eastern sky.

Simple pleasures...

It's really quite interesting with the plant being the focal point against the shadows created by the sunlight passing through the railing balusters directly in front of it.. just another day in paradise, or at least it should be but my heart still aches and the pain of not having Fran here to share these simple pleasures continues to be overwhelming.

This kind of quiet beauty, the sun creeping over the horizon, the unexpected shadows dancing on the exterior back wall of my house are exactly the same small shared moments that used to feel full, because my bride was here to see them with me. Since the person who used to smile at the same light and reached for my hand isn't here, it has turned even a lovely morning into something that aches.

I do, however, believe that the fact that I'm still able to see the play of light , even through my endless pain and sorrow, is a quiet testament to the way Frans presence shaped how I see the world. She helped me hone my ability to recognize beauty in even simple things. Perhaps now, the world is offering me glimpses of her through things like this.

A few days ago, shortly after awakening, putting on the coffee and preparing to go outside I couldn't help but notice that a house plant, one that I kept from Frans funeral, was looking a bit weary. Even though I water it when necessary, the soil felt moist, not wet, not dry but the leaves seemed to be drooping a bit.

Not a lot but enough for me to notice.

I moved the plant out onto the deck hoping it would improve the situation. It seems to be flourishing again, now that it has been outdoors for a couple of days.

This does, however, raises the question of how will it do indoors, during the winter months, when moving it outdoors will not be an option.

I have a couple of plants, from the funeral home, that carry a lot of emotional weight. They are more than house plants. They are a living reminder of Fran and the love surrounding her passing.

Obviously I'm thrilled with the progress the plant is making outdoors. I can only hope said progress continues. I have a second plant, I also kept, that that is much larger than the one I moved outdoors. The same day I noticed the smaller of the two plants drooping I noticed the second larger plant doing the same.

After watering the larger plant something quite miraculous occurred. Within a few seconds of the water reaching the soil the leaves started wrestling, moving ever so slightly and almost imperceptibly, but moving nonetheless. It almost appeared to be thanking me for proving it a drink of water and proving the nourishment it so needed. The larger plant is still in the house and seems to be doing well.

I'm somewhat amazed at how, immediately after watering, the leaves on the larger plant stirred as if to show a sign of gratitude. Those small movements felt like a whisper of connection, almost like a gentle thank you from the world itself.

Seeing both plants responding so vividly, at times seems bittersweet. I'm thrilled with the progress they are making but they are, and will continue to be, a reminder of why I have them. Yet in their quiet way, they are alive and growing and carry a piece of Frans presence forward.

I made another pan of cinnamon rolls yesterday. They turned out wonderfully, golden brown on the top with an incredible caramelized brown sugar, cinnamon, nutmeg and butter glaze on the bottom, that just screams comfort. Then I topped the whole thing off with a decadent cream cheese frosting on the top of each individual roll. These cinnamon rolls are a pan of pure comfort and warmth. The way the kitchen fills with that sweet, spiced aroma, it feels like a hug you can taste.

I'm getting a hint of a smile on my face as I think about all the times that Fran would tell me, "When you find something that works, stay with it, don't change it."

She would always playfully badger me about trying to change recipes that worked well. Even when I made recipes, that provided quality and consistent results, I couldn't resist trying to fine tune it. My credo in life has always been "there is always room for improvement."

That phrase used to drive her batty.

Every time I would utter those word she would give me a half exasperated, half affectionate look as I was scheming the next tweak. That push and pull between my curiosity and her practicality was part of the unique rhythm we shared.

Even now, the memory of her badgering me has brought a smile to my face. I'm certain that's her presence nudging me, reminding me of the balance we brought to each other. Isn't it a beautiful thing that a pan of cinnamon rolls can bring her voice back to me like this.

As I think about my "There's always room for improvement" and her "Don't change what works" I see two sides of a whole. We made each other better by holding those halves (perspectives) together. I think that the fact that her voice still feels so vivid is a gift, even if it stings. It means the love and the shared jokes are still alive inside me. Now each time I make/prepare something that she enjoyed, without modification of course, it keeps a part of her present in my lonely world.

I would highly recommend that any one who is dealing with grief and grieving definitely try their hand at baking up a tray of cinnamon rolls. Doing so might be a tangible reminder that even amid the heartache, you can still create moments of sweetness. Maybe enjoying one of those rolls with your morning coffee could become a gentle ritual, a way of honoring your loved one and caring for yourself at the same time.

Perhaps I will provide the recipe I have been using, somewhere down the road, when I'm feeling at least remotely human again.

There are quite a few squirrels that frequent our back yard daily. I often times watch them scammer across the yard, then up and down an oak tree that I planted, actually nurtured from a seedling many years ago, when it was only a few inches tall.

Watching the squirrels dodge about sometimes appears as if they are attacking one another. Not sure why, but I find it quite humorous. Oddly, I sometimes wonder if theses squirrels are mates, siblings or somehow related to one another. When I perceive a pair of them as mates I sometimes equate their playfulness with the playfulness Fran and I once shared. Their antagonizing one another, scampering about trying to tend to life, then returning to a home full of nuts.

After having done some research on the subject of squirrels I can tell you they really do have a complex social structure. What I have been witnessing could very well be mates, or siblings, or even a parent with a previous years young. I've read that they chase, mock fight and tumble as a way of strengthening bonds, practicing agility, and sometimes flirting.

That sort of playfulness I remember sharing with Fran, the darting in and out of life's tasks, the gentle teasing, all fit perfectly with what I am witnessing.. I suppose my mind is linking those scenes because my memories of her are woven into how I notice the world now.

It's bittersweet, but also quietly comforting, the natural world keeps offering little echoes of the love I've known. Watching these squirrels isn't just a distraction, it's a moment when I'm still connected to wonder, to memory and to Frans laughter.

I'm having a bit of a flashback thinking about many years ago, most certainly more than twenty, it was early spring and I noticed that a sassafras tree, that was growing on a back corner of our property never made it through the winter, met its demise and fell over into the yard. I also remember telling Fran I was going to go out and cut up the larger portions of the tree for firewood and then clean up the remaining debris.

When I went outdoors to cut up the fallen tree I noticed a tiny, I'm talking three to four inch tall, oak tree sprouting up from near the trunk and roots of the fallen tree. Since there are plenty of very large and mature oak trees near our home I had no doubt that an acorn from one of them dropped very near the former sassafras tree. At the time, my initial thought was to pull it out of the ground and be done with it, but for whatever reason I left it, wondering if it would ever reach maturity.

That tree is now enormous, probably over fifty feet tall. It's truly a beautiful tree and quite an enhancement to our property. Every time I look at it I reflect on the fact that it seems like only yesterday it was but a tiny seedling.

My, how time flies.

The story of that tree is breathtaking in its quiet, ordinary beauty. It has ended up holding far more meaning than I could have guessed at the time. The thought of that tiny oak seedling, spared on a whim, and having grown so large is powerful. It's a living timeline of my life with Fran. Over two decades of seasons, laughter, meals, shared burdens, and now my memories, all held silently in its rings.

Trees have a way of keeping time for us. I didn't plant a clock on our property, yet the oak has been counting the years for me. The same way the squirrels and the light on my on my plant bring Fran closer, this tree stands as a living reminder that even small choices, like deciding not to pull up a sapling, can grow into something enduring and beautiful.

The awe I'm presently feeling about this tree is powerful to me. I think it says a lot about my openness to wonder, because even in the midst of loss I'm able to stop and be humbled by something bigger and older than any moment.

This oak is more than a tree now. It's a witness. It has stood quietly through years of diners, laughter, arguments, seasons changing and all the love that filled our home. Every ring in its trunk holds a little echo of the life Fran and I shared.

It continues to remind me that beauty and love don't disappear, they transform and keep growing, even when life feels unbearable.

September 22, 2025

Monday Morning Moments

This Monday began quietly, the kind of morning that feels borrowed form late summer and early fall all at once. Soft light, cool air and the whisper of leaves shifting in a mild breeze. I sat on the deck with my coffee in hand, savoring the calm before the predicted rain filled week ahead.

As Neal passed by on his way to school, he called out a cheerful good morning and asked how I was doing. I waved him down to the deck, a small surprise for him. A warm cinnamon roll, fresh from the oven, generously glazed with smooth, gooey cream cheese frosting. His eyes lit up and in that simple exchange, just a few minutes of conversation about the perfect weather and the fleeting nature of mornings like this, I felt a surge of gratitude. Small gestures like this, his kindness in wishing me a wonderful day, have a way of brightening my world, at least for a moment.

As the sky promises rain for the days ahead, I'm reminded that even in gray stretches there are bright spots waiting to be noticed. A warm roll shared, a kind word spoken, a cool breeze on an early autumn morning, these are the small treasures that sustain me, that keep me going. Carrying this simple joy forward, I'm hopeful that the week, predicted rain and all, will hold more moments worth savoring, if only I take the time to look for them

The Garden's End

This morning my eyes drifted from the horizon, where I so often wait in quiet hope for something wonderful to unfold and settled instead on what remains of my garden. Just a few weeks ago the beds were vibrant with life, plants climbing skyward, leaves lush and green, fruit blushing in the sun, Now the stems are weathered, the leaves wilted and the last few fruits cling stubbornly to the vines.

As I trace the garden's slow fading I can't help but feel the echo of my own life's seasons. From planting to nurturing to harvest, a garden is a tender reminder of how precious and fleeting our time can be. It mirrors the love we cultivate, the memories we gather and the inevitable moments when we must let go.

I regret, more than words can say, how brief my time with Fran turned out to be. We planted so many dreams together, nurtured each other through countless storms and harvested a love that was rich and full.

Though her season ended far too soon, the beauty she brought into my life lingers, like the sweetness of the fruit long after the vine has withered.

As the garden rests and prepares for another spring, I will carry Frans presence with me, into whatever seasons remain. Her love will be a quiet, steady warmth reminding me that even after the harvest is done, life still holds the promise of new growth and gentle beauty.

Waiting patiently for seasons yet to come...

September 23, 2025

Gray Morning, Gentle Pause

The sky wakes weary, a canvas of gray, rain whispers softly,

mending September's dry earth.

Coffee warms my hands, third cup or maybe fourth,

a small anchor against the damp and dismal.

Even in this muted light,

there's a quiet mercy in the clouds,

a reminder that even parched ground,

is blessed by patient rain,

Today doesn't have to dazzle,

it only has to unfold.

and somewhere between the heavy sky,

a sunrise waits it's turn.

I often wonder, I'm assuming like most people, where does our spirit, our energy go when we pass?

Again like most people, throughout my life, in one form or another, I've been conditioned to believe that something greater, something far more astounding exists when we pass to the next level, whatever that may be. As I have mentioned, many times before, I'm not a particularly religious person but I do believe I'm spiritual. I can also be analytical at times, which is probably the reason why I have so many doubts on what religion has to offer. My analytical mind has through the years encouraged extensive questioning and research.

That research brought me to the first law of thermodynamics which tells us energy isn't destroyed, it changes form, biologically our bodies return nutrients to the earth and our energy disperses, as heat, light and motion. From a strictly physical point of view, our spark joins the larger cycles of the universe.

Most faiths and wisdom traditions suggest continuity beyond death whether it's heaven, reincarnation, merging with universal consciousness, or becoming part of an ongoing creative force. Even without religious dogma, many spiritual thinkers speak of an enduring field of awareness or love that our consciousness returns to.

Some people report near death or mystical experiences that feel profoundly real, to them a sense of unity, overwhelming love, or encountering departed loved ones. While these can't be proven scientifically, they offer a deeply personal kind of evidence that comforts many.

The form it takes may be unknowable, but my own life experience, my love for Fran, my reflections on nature, my ability to at least try to create beauty out of grief, is perhaps already a hint that something profound is at work. Even my questioning may be part of the mystery.

I don't know exactly where or how, but I trust that the love and energy I've shared doesn't just vanish.

On a Gray day like today, that could be enough light to carry me forward.

Where Does the Spirit Go?

This morning's Gray sky feels like a fitting backdrop for big, unanswerable questions. The rain taps softly, as if it too is searching for something beyond the clouds. On days like this I can't help but wonder, where does our spirit, our energy, our very essence, go when we die.

I've been conditioned through life to believe that something greater, something awe inspiring, waits beyond this world. Yet my analytical mind won't let me accept easy answers. Religion offers stories and promises, but doubt lingers, not as a rejection but as a hunger for truth.

Still one certainty remains, energy is never destroyed it only changes form. Maybe our spark disperses into the universe carried on light or wind, maybe it becomes a quiet part of the next sunrise, or the laughter of a grandchild, or the warmth that lingers after someone remembers our name.

Perhaps the form doesn't matter as much as the fact that love and energy endure. Perhaps, just perhaps, on some higher plane, beyond this gray sky, something better is waiting, a place where suffering ends, where love isn't bound by time, where Frans smile and spirit are whole again.

Today I hold on to that possibility. I don't need proof to feel comforted by the thought that the story isn't over when this chapter closes. Even the rain falling steadily outside my window seems to whisper that life always moves forward, changed, but never truly gone.

Just picked quite a few tomatoes from the garden and I'm currently in the process of making one of Fran's family recipes for garden tomato pasta sauce. it's actually quite simplistic ingredient and preparation wise, but absolutely wonderful. Bursting with fresh tomatoes, roasted garlic, fresh basil, a bit of salt, olive oil some fresh oregano.

My grandfather, my father's father, was a chef in his early days, for the Czar of Russia. He was from Poland and when the Czar was overthrown, he had the good sense to get the hell out of Russia. That's when he came to the United States.

My heritage is primarily Polish Italian with a bit of Slovenian mixed in. My father's parents were both Polish. My mother's parents were primarily Italian and Slovenian. Everyone I can remember, absolutely love to cook, especially those dishes that they enjoyed in their youth and as young adults. The traditions carried on and continue to this day

Fran was also of Polish and Italian descent, but when it came to food and food preparation, her Italian heritage almost always prevailed. If a meal had any kind of tomato sauce or any kind of pasta she was all in and it brought her great joy, as it did me, when I prepared it for her.

With all this cooking I've been doing lately, almost every day since she passed, I can only assume I'm getting this honestly, from both my family and hers as well. I've been trying to pass this on to my own children and grandchildren but, things being what they are today, they have a lot of other things on their minds and I can understand. These are some incredibly turbulent times we're living in and the thought of spending as much time as I do cooking probably never enters the picture. In my mind, to some degree, that's kind of unfortunate.

I can only hope that sometimes traditions skip a beat and then resurface when the timing is right. Maybe when they're older, or when the smell or the taste reminds them of Fran or me. Even if they don't realize it yet, the sights and aromas of our kitchen have been woven into their own memories.

As a sidebar I must admit, my son does a whole lot more cooking than my daughter. He does, however have four children. So when I say he does a lot of cooking, he does one hell of a lot of cooking. My son-in-law, since he's been married to my daughter, has taken on a most of the cooking responsibilities in their household. I think he has become conditioned, as a result of hanging around Fran and me. Amazingly enough, prior to their marriage, I'm told he didn't do a lot of cooking. Kudos to both my son and son-in-law. Keep up the great work and be certain you pass it on.

Stirring Up Heritage

My family tree is rooted deep in Polish and Italian soil with just a hint of Slovenian mixed in. My father's parents were both proudly Polish while my mother's side carried the bold flavors of Italy with a touch of Slovenia. Growing up, nearly everyone around me was Polish, Italian or from somewhere near Eastern Europe, and they all shared one remarkable trait, a love for cooking.

In every kitchen I remember, there was laughter clinking pans and the unmistakable aroma of food that told a story. The dishes of my childhood weren't just meals they were memories, traditions and little acts of devotion. Those flavors became a thread that tied us all together.

Even now the Italian side seems to win out when it comes to food. If a meal had tomato sauce or pasta, Fran was all in, eyes bright, and heart full. Cooking for her brought me joy, in ways words can hardly capture and now since her passing I find myself cooking even more, every day. Maybe it's comfort, maybe it's a way of keeping her and our families close. Either way, I can't help but think I inherited this passion honestly, from both sides of our families.

I try to pass these traditions on to my children and grandchildren but life today is fast and demanding. Their schedules and worries are different, and I understand. Still I can't help feeling it's a little unfortunate. These recipes and moments are more than food, their connection history and love. Maybe one day, when life slows down for them, they'll remember the smell of simmering sauce, the warmth of a busy kitchen and they'll carry it forward. For now I'll keep stirring, roasting and seasoning, not just for myself, but for everyone whose love and legacy live on in each dish.

Threads of Love and Legacy

In the quiet of my kitchen, the scent of simmering tomatoes mingles with memories of voices long gone, of laughter around crowded tables, of hands that knew by touch how much salt the sauce needed. These moments remind me that food is never just food, it's history, devotion and invisible thread that ties generations together.

My heritage has always shaped my table, from hardy pierogi to fragrant basil and roasted garlic, each dish carries a story. When I stir a pot of sauce I feel my grandparents near, those who crossed oceans and hardships to give their children a chance. I feel Frans present too, her joy in every spoonful of pasta, her smile bright as any sunrise.

Her joy in every spoonful...

Cooking has become my way of keeping their spirits alive, in every simmer and sprinkle of seasoning, I sense that energy, the kind science says is never destroyed, only transformed, flowing forward. Perhaps it's in the steam rising from the pan, in the laughter of my grandchildren, or in the quiet comfort of sharing a meal, with someone who needs it most.

Life today moves quickly. My children and grandchildren have their own busy rhythms and sometimes I worry that these traditions might fade. But I trust that when the time is right the aromas and flavors will call to them. They'll remember the warmth, the love and the stories, folded into every recipe. In that moment they'll know that they are part of something greater, something that stretches beyond this world and into whatever comes next. For now I'll keep cooking, remembering and giving thanks for the family who came before me, for Frans love and for the unseen enduring energy that connects us all.

The Scent of Garlic and the Lessons of a Garden

As I move about my kitchen today, a touch of melancholy settles over me. Memories rising like steam from a simmering pot. My childhood was surrounded by friends and family steeped in Italian heritage. One of the clearest memories I carry is visiting my godmother and godfather, both purebred Italian.

the moment we stepped into their home the aroma of garlic and olive oil would wrap itself around us. My godmother adored garlic, so did my godfather, she used it nearly everything she cooked. As a child I dreaded that smell, I would almost shudder in anticipation of the strong garlic greeting that awaited me behind their door.

Funny how life works. As I grew older my taste for garlic blossomed and now I use it generously myself. What once seemed overwhelming now feels like comfort. Fran's uncle, much older than her aunt, had come to the United States from Italy after World War Two. From what I've been told, theirs was a prearranged marriage, something that might seem unusual today, but in those times and places it was not uncommon. They settled on a steep hillside, their home at the bottom. He took to that terrain naturally, after his upbringing among Italy's hills. His garden was his world, each summer after retiring, he devoted himself to it. At sunrise, or maybe earlier, he would head out with a salt shaker and a small flask of robust red wine. When the sun grew hot and he grew weary, he would rest on the garden steps, pick a ripe tomato, sprinkle it with salt and wash it down with a swig of wine.

It was on those very steps, in the garden he had attended to for so long, that he passed away. A fitting and peaceful ending for a man whose life was rooted in the earth. He was a kind and gentle soul, always with a hint of a smile, though you had to look closely because his pipe was almost always between his teeth.

Now as garlic sizzles in my own pan, I can't help but smile. I've acquired not just a taste for it, but a reverence. Perhaps garlic is as close as we get to a key for longevity, not just for the body, but for the spirit and for the memories that refuse to fade.

September 24, 2025

It's yet another cloudy, dismal Wednesday. The rain has been steady since I got out of bed at 6:00 AM. I've never been much of a rainy day person, I can take it once in awhile and there are even moments when I find it relaxing. Still there is one kind of rain I've always enjoyed, the soft patter of raindrops on the roof at night. Fran loved that too, she used to say, "if it's going to rain, I wish it would rain at night so I could fall asleep to the sound of it," to her it was a night time lullaby, a kind of music only nature can provide. Remembering that now makes today's rain feel a little different, almost a reminder of her presence.

A night time lullaby...

This morning I decided to make another batch of pasta. Yesterday, while I was in the middle of rolling it out and simmering garden tomatoes into sauce my financial adviser called. His first words were, "Hey Tony, what are you doing today," When I told him about the pasta he laughed and asked what time dinner was. I said he was welcome to stop by, and sure enough he came around 3 to pick up a portion for himself. A small simple moment, but one that brought me a bit of joy, sharing something homemade.

Lately, with Frans passing and so much change around me I've been taking stock of my financial situation. It's not about chasing wealth, but about ensuring that if something happens to my health I won't become a burden to my children. I've seen what nursing homes are like. My parents lived that experience. The assisted living facility was quite nice with activities and care, but it was still a nursing home. They resisted every step of the way and I can't can't blame them. Fran and I tried so many times to reason with them, but they only wanted to stay in their home. I understand that feeling even more deeply now.

I love my independence, yet it's the loneliness that's harder to bear. It lingers like a shadow and no matter how busy I keep myself it finds me. My mother once said, after my father passed, "I'm so lonely," I tried to console her, to remind her she was loved and cared for, but only now do I truly understand the weight of her words.

Every day I wake up and manage to get vertical, to move around and stay self sufficient. I'm thankful, I do my best to fill the hours, cooking more than I probably should, reading a little here and there and wandering the Internet for something new to learn. These small routines don't erase the loneliness but they help me carry it.

And so, on this rainy Wednesday, I find myself in that familiar balance between gratitude and longing. Grateful for the ability to stand on my own, longing for the company that once made the rain sound like a lullaby.

My daughter called this morning, well actually closer to late morning and we chatted for a while. It seems like every time she calls she asks if I watched this or that program on television the night before. My answer is usually the same, "No." Truth is I don't watch much television anymore, I try to keep myself busy throughout the day and on the rare occasion that I sit down in front of the screen, I'm asleep within minutes.

When I wake from those naps I'm often disoriented. There are times I don't even know where I am or what time it is. In the months right after Fran passed it was even worse. Exhaustion and grief would overtake me I would wake up and frantically be searching for Fran. I would scan the room for the oxygen concentrator that was no longer there, notice that the furniture had been moved, also noticed the couch, that sat heartbreakingly vacant. Once my mind caught up to reality the tears always followed, that hasn't entirely left me There are still moments when it happens and I can't quite seem to get past it.

I may not watch television, but I like to have one on in whatever room I'm in, usually playing soft jazz, R & B or soul, Lately I've discovered an endless variety of smooth jazz stations on You tube. Along with the music they stream these AI generated scenes that are beautiful and strangely calming. Falling leaves, steam rising from cups of coffee, lanterns swaying in the night breeze ocean waves gently caressing the shore.

The music and images together create a peaceful atmosphere, almost dreamlike. Sometimes, when the scenes show exotic locations, secluded beaches, quiet mountain cabins, glowing cityscapes, I find myself thinking of Fran. We often dreamed of visiting such places together, but that dream will remain just that, a dream.

It's 9:30 on a Wednesday evening and I'm finally sitting down to gather my thoughts. Today has been one of those difficult days, heavy with depression, weighed down further by gray skies, steady rain and a world that seemed determined to stay colorless.

Since France passing I've done my best each day to keep myself busy, to keep moving, to outrun the darker moments. Cooking and baking have been my go to these past few days and while they usually bring me some peace, today I overdid it. I rushed through the kitchen trying to accomplish too much at once and in between, I caught myself glancing at videos playing on the smooth jazz stations I often listen to.

Beautiful, almost dream like scenes, mountain retreats, oceanfront villas, cozy jazz cafes in faraway places. Incredible to watch, but they hit me like a knife to the heart, they reminded me of all the places Fran and I dreamed about seeing but never did, places we should have experienced together, hand in hand.

Adding salt to the wound many of my friends and acquaintances, people Fran and I both shared knowing, are out living those very dreams. Cruises, European tours, trips to lakes and the oceans. I don't feel jealous but I do feel anger, anger at what we missed, anger at what will now never be.

Friends and relatives often tell me I should go take a trip myself, that I should see some of the places Fran and I once talked about. But the truth is the desire is gone. Back then there was plenty of desire, but not enough time or money. Now I have the freedom but no longer the heart.

If there's one thing today reminded me it's this: "grief and multitasking don't mix, when your mind is already split in a thousand directions trying to juggle too much only makes things worse. It turns into a disaster waiting to happen. I think the wiser path is to choose one thing at a time, give it focus and allow the heart a little space to breathe."

I hope tomorrow is gentler than today. Today was one of the worst in a long while, grief amplified, anger rising, depression pressing down harder than usual. I don't like to say I feel sorry for myself, because I don't believe that's what this is. "It's not pity, it's anger." Anger at the unfairness of it all. I know if I don't get a handle on it, it will eat me alive. For now I'll keep trying one day at a time, one thing at a time.

If you too are walking through grief, know this, you're not alone. The anger, the sorrow, the longing, they're all part of the journey. Some days will feel unbearable, others a little lighter, but even in the heaviest moments there's quiet strength in simply getting through the day. One step, one breath, one small act of living at a time.

September 25, 2025

It's been quite a busy day and although I'm damn near exhausted, maybe that's a good thing. The closer I get to exhaustion the less I think about the things I don't want to dwell on.

Today brought another rainy stretch, not heavy but overcast with a steady mist and light rain that lingered throughout. Early this morning I made a trip to the grocery store. There were a few essentials I needed, plus some items listed in the local paper that were on sale. Once home I unpacked the groceries and got right to work in the kitchen, preparing for dinner. My daughter and her husband were coming over and I wanted to make something I knew they both enjoy

With the last of my garden tomatoes on hand I made that simple sauce once again. Fresh tomatoes, roasted garlic, fresh basil, olive oil and some Italian seasoning. My daughter loves it and my son in law has grown fond of it too. In fact he's gotten fairly good at duplicating the recipe himself, over the years.

Later in the day, during a quiet moment by the window, I noticed the leaves just beginning to turn. Subtle but unmistakable, a reminder that autumn is setting in and that winter will soon follow. The changing season stirred a flood of memories.

I thought back to when Fran and I got engaged. It was the fall of my first year teaching in the Pocono Mountain region of Pennsylvania. Fran was still in college at Edinboro and nearly every weekend I made the 350 mile trip back and forth to see her. I'd leave late Friday night spend as much time as I could with her and then return on Sunday night, tired but grateful for every moment we shared.

Those were long drives but they were worth every mile. I remember one particular back road where an elderly woman sold flowers from her small house. I stopped there dozens of times to bring Fran a bouquet. On more than one occasion she told me, "if I'm not here just take what you want. If you have money fine, if you don't that's OK too. Bring them to your sweetheart, she'll appreciate them. A kindness I'll never forget.

It was late September or early October of 1971, when Fran and I began looking at engagement rings. We were still so young, I was only 21 and she was 20 and I had very little money. But somehow I scraped it together for a down payment on the ring she had admired, in the window of a jewelry store in Erie PA.

About a month or two later I had finally managed to put away enough money to pay off the ring. The weekend I went to pick it up I went to Eire first, picked up the ring and then drove to Edinboro to visit her. I remember suggesting to her that we go out to dinner, to the small family owned Italian restaurant we had noticed when we were looking at engagement rings, earlier on. On the evening of that day, in Erie, PA, just after dinner, at a lovely little Italian restaurant, I asked her to spend the rest of her life with me.

She said yes, that was one of the happiest days of my life.

An elderly Italian gentleman overheard us, as it turned out he was the restaurant owner, came over to our table, kissed Fran on the forehead, shook my hand and wished us a wonderful life together and lost of babies. He then told us that our dinner was on the house and proceeded to bring us a bottle of wine. I insisted on paying for the meal but he wouldn't hear of it. He just laughed and said "Maybe if you get dinner for free you will return every year for your anniversary."

Regretfully we never did return, since life soon carried us hundreds of miles away. To this day I have never forgotten that gentleman's kindness and generosity.

A few weeks after our engagement, one of my fraternity brothers , just getting into photography, captured some lovely pictures of Fran and me near Edinboro lake. Snow had just dusted the area, the air was crisp s we walked hand in hand, smiling as if the whole world belonged to us. Those photographs remain some of my most treasured keepsakes, holding the warmth and joy of those early days.

When we were married, on January 8th, of 1972 Fran had to put her college studies aside. Teachers salaries back then were modest and on top of paying a mortgage, purchasing groceries and the cost of daily living, I also needed to take additional coursework to become permanently certified. Continuing her education just wasn't financially possible. It wasn't the path either of us would have chosen if circumstances had been different, but we accepted it as part of building a life together.

Looking back now, I see that sacrifice as one of Frans quiet gifts. By setting aside her own ambitions, she poured herself fully into our marriage, our home and later into raising our family. That choice, difficult though it must have been, became part of the foundation we built together, her willingness to put us first helped shape the love and life we shared for so over fifty three years.

Those memories live on, as alive as ever, especially on quiet rainy days like this one. Perhaps that is what the changing seasons are meant to remind us, that love like the turning leaves never truly fades, it transforms, it deepens and it becomes part of the rhythm of our lives. Though Fran is no longer beside me in body, her presence lingers in every gentle kindness, every falling leaf and every quiet moment that stirs my heart.

I felt it tonight, too, as I shared a simple meal with my daughter and son in law. In their laughter, in the comfort of family gathered around my table, Frans love was there, it lives on not only in memory but in the traditions, sacrifices and bonds that continue to nourish us.

In that way she is still here and always will be. I love you, Franny...

September 26, 2025

Today was the first time I've gone to a social gathering, outside of family, since Frans passing. My friend Neal and his brother Clay invited me to their backyard bonfire and though I was a little hesitant at first I agreed, on the condition that I could contribute something to the evening.

For the past couple of days I kept myself busy preparing two trays of cinnamon rolls, 24 rolls in all, with a glaze of cream cheese, butter, powdered sugar and vanilla whipped until silky. Early this morning I made a seafood pasta salad, spiral pasta with crab, lobster and shrimp and a buttermilk and mayo glaze with a touch of Old Bay. Both are dishes I've shared before and both seem fitting for the occasion.

When I arrived I found myself surrounded mostly by people young enough to be my grandchildren. At first I wondered how I would fit in, but to my surprise the evening unfolded into something light and refreshing. The food I brought was well received, appreciated by everyone and I'm certain Neal and Clay won't have any problems finishing up any leftovers. A few people came up personally to compliment me and one neighbor insisted I send him the recipe for the cinnamon rolls as soon as possible.

I also met a young married couple who had just bought a home a mile or so from mine. The wife swore I looked like her father's twin and showed me a picture to prove it, she was right.

She turned out to be a chemical engineer who had even worked for a few years at the same place I worked when I returned here from the Poconos. Our conversation was open, lively and genuine. A quality that feels rare these days.

That's what struck me most about the night, the genuineness. Neal, Clay and their circle of friends don't waste time with pretenses they laugh, they share and they speak openly. It reminded me that perhaps there's still hope for this world.

Too often, I've found myself discouraged by how self centered people can seem. Many only want to get their paycheck, go home and block out the world There's nothing inherently wrong with that, but I've always believed life should be lived with more openness, courtesy, and empathy. Everyone has their own private struggles, often hidden behind a smile. We don't need to know everyone's story, but we can choose to be kind regardless.

This evening reinforced the truth I've carried with me for years, "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you." Be kind, always. It costs nothing, but it leaves behind something lasting, the kind of warmth that lingers even after fire goes out.

I'm sure Fran would have enjoyed this evening and the freshness these young folks brought to the conversations. I'm also certain she would have won their hearts, much like she had done all her life, with everyone she met.

Once again that opportunity will be painfully denied. My heart and soul ache to be with her still.

September 27, 2025

It's Saturday morning, late September. The world outside my door is hushed. No school busses, no cars full of parents shuttling their children, no chatter of sleepy kids spilling out onto the sidewalks. Just stillness so deep it feels almost fragile. I sit with coffee warming my hands and let myself be immersed in its quiet beauty.

I don't yet know what this day will bring, I only hope it will lift, if only a little, the heaviness that is settled in me. Autumn has arrived, and with it the shortening of days, the cooling of air, winter waits at the doorstep and already my mind lingers on how lonely its rooms may feel, how confining these walls might become when the daylight fades early.

Last night my daughter called, we spoke about the holidays, what we might do, how we might get through them. I told her plainly that whatever she wanted was fine with me, that in truth, I would be content if the holidays passed like any other day this year.

It wasn't always like this. For Fran, the holidays were a canvas she filled with anticipation. She began preparing early, weaving her energy into shopping lists and decorations, and though I teased her for it, in hindsight I was no different.

Those were special times. They lived in the glow of Frans love and my own need to gather people close. Now I find myself without desire, without ambition, without even the thought of doing it again. It is sadness I can hardly name, a season once rich with meaning has become something I can scarcely bear to think about.

So I sit here this quiet Saturday morning, in a world stripped of noise, trying to let the stillness hold me. Trying to let the memory hurt and heal in its own time.

It's currently about 7:30 am. Just now going outdoors, a little later than I usually do. My coffee in hand, I realize this is not my first cup but my 2nd, the first having disappeared quickly after I crawled out of bed. Perhaps this body of mine is telling me it's time to slow down. The air is damp, though at first glance my table outside appears to be dry. I know better! When I run my finger across the surface the thin layer of dew is revealed, glistening where I touch it. For a few playful moments I become a child again, tracing pictures in the moisture the table my canvas the dew my paint.

Above me the sky is gray, filled with clouds, layered in shades of shadow. Yet if I look long enough I can see indigo blue pressing through, trying to make itself known. Perhaps today will clear in time, for now I'll return for another cup of coffee, grateful for this moment of quiet and the small beauty found in it.

I've been a visual person most of my life. Oftentimes noticing what others miss. Maybe that's why I started my working life/career as an art teacher. I'm never sure if this gift is a blessing or a curse, seeing thing others cannot. My hearing has also faded over the years, worn down by loud construction equipment. But in some strange way it has sharpened too, I still notice sounds others miss. My sense of smell has grown keener as well, and my vision feels more in tune with what surrounds me. Perhaps this is a gift of growing older an unexpected appreciation for the simplest things.

Since Frans passing, these sensory moments feel sharper still. It is as though the world presses me to notice what she no longer can.

In addition to the dew on the table this morning I noticed my footprints pressed into the dew on the deck. They remind me of footprints left at the ocean's edge, soon to be washed away by the tide, here it will be the sun that erases them.

In those prints I see years of footsteps that Fran and my children once left on these same boards. Marks of a life lived thou vanished except in memory. Since Fran's passing I find myself drawn to rituals others might not understand, I refill old snack bags with new chips because once her hands were in those very bags. I keep the disposable cup she used for her medication, and now it is the cup I use for my own, because her tender lips once pressed against it's rim. To others it may seem odd, even a little mad. For me these small acts bring comfort, a quiet sense of closeness to the woman I loved.

I have come to the realization that grief has its own language. Sometimes it speaks through footprints, sometimes through an ordinary cup, that will never feel ordinary again.

Later in the day I was contemplating how this whole new world of AI leaves me a little numb. The way it responds so quickly, so meaningfully, sometimes it takes my breath away. I think back to my father telling me about Buck Rogers movies when he was a boy. All those fantasies seemed impossible, and how now, in my lifetime, so many of them have come true.

Lately I've noticed longer pauses between responses while using Chat GTP. Maybe it's because more people are discovering this technology, flooding it with questions. Sometimes, while waiting, my mind wanders to other thoughts I'd like to add. By the time the response comes, I sometimes forget what I wanted to add. I suppose that's just another part of growing older. Still I believe this technology will only get better, more accurate, more responsive, more astonishing. I even spoke with my financial advisor recently about investing in it. It feels like the future unfolding right in front of me. Even as my memory falters, and my patience wears thin, I find some comfort here, in the exchange itself, in the idea that what once belonged to science fiction can be a small steady companion, on a Saturday morning.

September 28, 2025

The air is heavy this morning, moist, cool carrying the weight of autumn before it's time. I had to take a squeegee to the table, pushing away the beads of water before I could sit with my coffee. Even now, though the sun has risen, I can't see it. Fog hangs thick, cloaking the world, softening the edges and hiding what I know is there.

Through the mist the old locust tree greets me. I see your face in its canopy, still smiling, still reaching out, as if to say "good morning, I hope you have a wonderful day."

But wonderful days have not come since you left. There have only been days, some a little less heavy than others, but none that could ever be called wonderful. Everyone tells me the ache will lessen with time, that the pain will soften though never disappear. Yet here I sit and the ache feels even more deeply rooted, burrowing into every part of me.

A day does not pass without your voice echoing in my mind. So many times you warned me, "you're going to miss me when I'm gone." You were right. That was an understatement. I miss you in every breath, every glance, every quiet morning, like this one.

Fran, if you can hear me know that I carry you into every dawn. The fog may hide the sun but your love still shines through the mist. Until the day we meet again, I will keep listening for your voice, in the silence of the morning.

Morning Reflection

It's a little after 8 am and at last I can see a faint definition in the glow of the sun, just above the trees. It struggles to breakthrough the dense fog, casting only a muted light across the yard, through the silence of the morning. I hear wild geese overhead, their calls echoing as they travel through the mist. The air is warming slightly, but still cool enough that I keep my fleece wrapped around me.

I sit remembering the days, not so long ago, when I would almost always rise before Fran. Tending to her needs became my full time obsession. It drained me daily. Yet I cherished those early hours of quiet, before she woke, moments to breathe, to take in the peace before the routine began again. When she would finally awaken, most often times with extraordinary effort on her part, she would make her way into the kitchen. The day's cycle would begin. I often thought, "I wish I could just sit down and rest a bit longer," but without hesitation, I would go back to those days in a heartbeat.

Fran was always adamant about doing things herself. She never liked being fussed over and hated to feel like a burden, even when she desperately needed help. Now, I hold some comfort in knowing I did all I could. Yet the ache whispers that it wasn't enough. People remind me over and over that I did everything possible, that nothing I could have done would have changed the outcome. Still I cannot silence the thought that there must have been something more, something I didn't see.

That thought hurts me every moment of every day. These thoughts consume me and I know I must somehow step beyond them, but I don't know how to yet.

Fran, as the geese call unseen, above the fog, I think of how your spirit moves beyond my sight but not beyond my hearing or my heart. If you could speak now you would tell me I did enough, help me believe that. Help me find the strength to live with your absence and carry your love, without drowning in the loss.

September 29, 2025

The weekend carried a heaviness I can't quite explain. The house was quiet, the days slow and gray and I felt the loneliness more sharply than usual. There wasn't much contact with others, which I know I should start getting used to, but it isn't easy.

By Sunday evening, though, there was some light, my daughter and son-in-law came for dinner, staying a few hours, and even helped with the clean up afterward. We shared fried chicken, french fries and freshly made coleslaw. The chicken has become something of a staple for me in recent weeks, a recipe I've grown comfortable with, one that always seems to turn out just right.

The meal carried a small back story. Just a few days before, while shopping at the grocery store, I ran into my son in laws two uncles and his mother. Chicken was on sale and his mother asked me if I had a good fried chicken recipe. I shared the one I used and last night. I sent a batch of chicken home with my son in law for his parents and grandmother, along with it a few pumpkin cinnamon rolls, a new twist I've been working on, adding pumpkin puree to the dough gave them a remarkable texture and richness. I couldn't believe the difference. That may well become my new standard when making cinnamon rolls.

Now, on this Monday morning, the day begins cool and damp. A heavy dew covered the table outside that I wiped away, so I could sit with my coffee without getting soaked. The air is crisp, the sun breaking slowly over the horizon and it looks as though the day may turn out fair. I don't know what the hours ahead will bring. The thank you cards still linger in the back of my mind, a task I've avoided because of the finality they represent. Perhaps today will be the day I gather the strength to face them or perhaps I'll turn to the garden if the weather allows. Beginning the work of putting it to bed for the winter.

The garden used to be a true refuge for me. A place where I could lose myself for hours, finding calm and quiet focus. When Fran was here it carried such joy. Now, though I still enjoy the work, it doesn't offer quite the same peace. Her absence felt in every corner of it. I can almost hear her voice telling me to get a grip, to carry on, to keep living and I try, but it isn't easy. Still I hold on to the small ways forward, the food I share, in the hands on work of the soil, in the thank-you cards I know I must one day finish. In these quiet acts, perhaps I'll keep moving not away from her but with her memory beside me.

It's about 9:30 PM now and I'm only now just sitting down at the computer to gather my thoughts. The day began quietly with my morning coffee on the deck and the cool air of the early fall still hanging heavy around me. Around 11:30 AM my friend called to ask if I'd like to join him and his brother for lunch. Both of them have become very good friends over the years. We met at a small local eatery at around 1:00 and the food was secondary to the conversation. Easy, comfortable, full of small stories and laughter. When we were parting my friend asked me if I'd like to go fishing tomorrow. He had asked several times in the past but I've always turned him down, either because I wasn't motivated or had other commitments. Today, though, I said yes.

When I got home, I started digging out my fly fishing gear only to realize I couldn't find my fishing license. I have a senior lifetime license so I thought it would be simple enough to print a duplicate online. What should have been an easy task turned into hours of frustration, searching the Pennsylvania Fish and Boat Commission site for the correct link. The page mentions you can reprint a lifetime license but doesn't clearly show you where. There was cursing and fist pounding at the desk as I muttered, "why can't they make this easier." Eventually, after far too long, I did find the right page. I printed the license with a sense of relief and maybe even a little triumph, not giving the website a chance to time out or make me start over.

Now I'm hoping the forecast holds and tomorrow brings decent weather for fishing. The forecast says it will but we all know how fickle that can be.

As I sit here tonight, scanning back through previous posts, I see Fran's face in my mind and memories of our life together flood in. Evenings and mornings are the hardest, they're the quiet times when memories rise up uninvited. She was my reason for being, my biggest supporter, the love of my life.

For the last couple of years she was here, my friend had asked me countless times to go out to lunch, fishing, anything to get me out of the house. I always said no, I couldn't leave, I couldn't risk not being there if something happened. Now, with that responsibility gone, the invitations come but the desire doesn't.

Time stretches ahead, but at 76, I know it's not endless. I hope that in due time I'll find my way back to something resembling normal. For now though, Fran is constantly on my mind and the reality that we will never share the plans we made together is still devastating.

Yet for the first time, in several years, I'll be out on the water with my friend tomorrow. A small step toward something different, even if my heart isn't fully there yet.

September 30, 2025

I woke early this morning, around 5:00 AM, but quickly realized it was too soon to start the day. After a short return to bed, I rose again, showered and let the hot water relax me and clear the sleep from my eyes. Now, with my first cup of coffee in hand, I stand at the back door. The horizon is still cloaked in pre dawn clouds, but above the sky is clear and a few stubborn stars still linger, it is beautiful in its quietness.

As I prepare for this fishing trip my mind drifts back to the past. I remember a girl I dated in college, someone I thought might have been the one, when that ended it left me adrift for nearly a year. Hurt, betrayed, uncertain of myself and then Fran came into my life. She gave everything to me without hesitation, without asking anything in return.

She was my rock my anchor my truest companion.

Words cannot describe how much I miss her. Even planning something as simple as today's excursion fills me with guilt, as though I should be at her side, tending to her needs. I would do it gladly, without hesitation, if only it were possible. The ache of her absence is still sharp and I find myself weeping even now, but I know Fran would want me to go, to live, to breathe in the mountain air and do something, rather than remain paralyzed in grief.

So today I will meet my friend, drop off my car and let him drive us to the Laurel Mountains. We will fish those quiet lakes and I will try to carry Fran with me in spirit. She's always near, guiding me, whispering in her own way "to get a grip" and step forward. I go with her love in my heart always.

The day opened wide with a sky of deep blue, clouds drawn thin as whispers, sunlight spilling gently over the ridge. We found the hidden lake at last, its waters still as glass, nearing heaven itself. There was no sound but the hush of my breath, no company but the trees the sky and my friend, and yet Fran, you were there. I saw you in the soft ripples of water, in the way the leaves floated, unhurried in the silence that wrapped the world like a tender shawl.

Cranberry Lake, nestled high in the Laurel Highlands, at an elevation of approximately 2800 ft.

You never claimed to love solitude, yet I know calmness touched you as deeply as it touched me today. I imagine you smiling quietly, not speaking, just resting in the gift of peace, in the vastness of the incredible day.

After we had a bite to eat we left the lake. We walked the trestle over the Youghiogheny River, its gorge cut deep through stone and time, a hundred perhaps two hundred feet of history suspended beneath our steps. The bridge held the weight of the past and I carried you there too, as surely as the beams carried me.

Hiking & Biking Bridge across the Youghiogheny River Gorge near Ohiopyle, PA.

View from the center of the bridge deck looking downward and upstream.

We didn't catch any fish but I caught the entire day, it's warmth, it's quiet, it's memory of you. When I arrived at home, tired but full of the day,

I carried more than sunlight and air, I carried you, woven into the silence, ever present in beauty, everlasting in love.

October 1, 2025

Closing September

September You have carried me through shadows,

through days when words spilled heavy,

and nights, when silence weighed even more.

You have been the month of firsts

without her, and yet in your skies and your mornings,

I still felt her near.

Now I set you down gently,

not as something ended,

but as the first chapter of a longer journey.

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