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October 2025 continued…
- kresicki
- Oct 20
- 36 min read
Updated: 5 days ago
October 19, 2025
“Sunrise for Two”
It’s Sunday morning,
and the sky unfolds like a promise,
lavender soft at the edges,
a slow, golden awakening
where night loosens its grip on the earth.
I sit in the hush of early light,
watching the sun bloom
through layers of rose and ember,
and I swear I can feel her beside me.
Her quiet breath in the rhythm of dawn,
her warmth in the tender flame of the horizon.
We used to sit like this,
side by side in stillness,
letting the world turn slowly around us.
No need for words,
the sky always did the speaking,
and love was the reply.
Now I watch alone,
but not entirely,
the colors know her name.
They linger a moment longer
as if to say, She’s still here,
in the light, in the air, in you.
And though the ache rises
with the sun itself,
I remind myself, the heart doesn’t forget how to love.
Even through the storm that’s coming,
this morning will stay,
a sunrise for two,
painted once more by grace.
Gray Sunday Reflections
It’s 5:04 on a Sunday afternoon.
The sky has worn gray since early afternoon,
and the air is thick with the slow whisper of rain,
not enough to cleanse, only enough to dull.
I know we need the rain, the earth is begging for it,
but I wish it would fall at night,
when I could sleep through the sound of it
instead of sitting here under its spell.
I’ve spoken with my daughter, heard from my grandson,
texted with Fran’s cousin in Ohio,
small threads of connection stretched thin across the hours.
Aside from folding clothes and running the vacuum,
the day has offered little purpose.
I dozed off in the chair for a while,
and when I woke, the light had barely changed.
A wasted day, I thought, and lately, wasted time feels heavier than ever.
When Fran was here,
we used to wander through days like this together,
complaining about the rain,
about the gloom,
about being bored,
never realizing that in our “nothingness,”
we had everything.
Those slow, uneventful afternoons
were the quiet miracles of our lives.
We were bored, yes,
but we were bored together.
How peaceful that was.
How priceless.
Now the silence stretches out like a horizon with no end.
The house feels too large for one person,
and the walls echo thoughts I wish I could silence.
These gray days remind me of what’s gone
and what’s still coming, the long stretch of winter months ahead,
the stillness,
the loneliness.
I try to stay busy,
cooking, cleaning,
finding reasons to move from room to room.
I cook not out of hunger but habit,
as though the rhythm of preparation
might keep the sadness at bay.
Yet when no one comes to share the food,
it feels like another small reminder
of how much quieter life has become.
I tell myself not to mind,
but some days, I do.
Some days, I just want someone to care enough
to come pick up what I’ve made.
Some days, I want the company
more than the gratitude.
Even now, after the small procedure at the doctor’s,
I wait for help I was told would come, but doesn’t.
I say, “That’s all right, I’ll deal with it,"
because that’s what I do now.
I deal with it.
The silence, the solitude,
the slow ache of missing her.
Still, deep down, I know this much,
these days,
gray, empty, and weary as they feel,
are part of the long remembering.
Part of the way love continues
after one of us has gone ahead.
And though I sit here alone,
I know that somewhere within this quiet,
her presence still lingers,
gentle as rain,
steady as memory.
October 20, 2025
What Will Be, Will Be
Monday, a little after 3 PM
A gray Monday filled with aches, memories, and small moments of perseverance — a reflection on how even the cloudiest days can still carry a trace of light.
not exactly the kind of weather that does any good for what ails me. And truth be told, there’s a lot ailing me these days.
I woke around six, had a couple cups of coffee, and went down to fold some laundry.
Later, I tried adding a new section to my blog on the computer,
without much success. I didn’t push it, though,
the last time I tried, I nearly sent myself into a panic,
thinking I’d lost everything I’d written so far.
Funny thing, though, while sitting in my living room chair,
phone in hand, I opened the Wix app and discovered
the process was far simpler there.
What had taken me hours and a heap of frustration before,
was done in just a few minutes.
No struggle, no panic, it just worked.
I’ve made close to a dozen phone calls today,
most of them trying to get a doctor’s appointment.
Finally got through just a little while ago,
only to be told I’d have to leave a message.
They’ll call back, they said.
We’ll see how long that takes.
I haven’t felt well at all today.
There’s been some convincing abdominal pain,
most likely from the hernia I’ve had
for close to ten years. My family doctor’s been
telling me for ages to get it taken care of,
but back then, caring for Fran was all that mattered.
I couldn’t risk being laid up for weeks or months.
Now it seems the years are catching up to me,
and my body’s letting me know it.
My daughter had a doctor’s appointment
in Pittsburgh this morning and stopped
on her way home to re-bandage the wounds
from my recent surgery.
Hard to believe that until last October,
I’d never been in the hospital for myself,
only to visit others. Never took any medications,
not even an aspirin for a headache.
Medicine just wasn’t my thing.
My son called from North Carolina today as well.
He keeps telling me I should come and stay
with him during the winter, but I tell him
that’s probably not going to happen,
for a variety of reasons.
Everyone there, except his daughter,
works and drives, so if I went down,
I’d still be sitting in the house,
staring at the walls,
and not have any way to get around.
I doubt I could manage driving there myself anymore.
He said, “Well, at least you could sit outside
a little longer here than you can at home, it’s warmer here.”
I told him I’ve been in North Carolina
in the wintertime, and it can get mighty cold there too.
So I might just as well stay where I am.
Now, though, it’s one thing after another,the hernia,
my prostate, failing eyesight, and teeth so bad
I can barely chew. It all adds up to the same conclusion:
I’m going downhill, and fast. Oh well. What will be, will be.
It’s been another dreary, miserable day,
and the aches and pains certainly don’t help,
not physically, and not emotionally.
There’s so much I need to do around this house,
but I can’t seem to find the motivation or energy to start.
The only thing that still gives me a bit of peace
is cooking and baking, something about it
has always been therapeutic. But even that
feels out of reach today.
Still, as I sit here, I notice the grayness
beginning to break apart, large patches of blue
appearing between the clouds. The air’s cooled
since Saturday, we’re in the high 50s now,
low 60s maybe, compared to the mid-70s warmth
we had just two days ago. Saturday was gorgeous.
Now, the changing sky reminds me that winter is on its way,
and no matter how much I try to prepare for it,
I doubt I’ll ever really be ready.
Closing Reflection:
Note: Days like this remind me that healing isn’t always about feeling better, sometimes it’s about simply enduring. I still catch myself looking for Fran in the smallest moments, the light shifting through the window, the warmth of the oven when I bake, the sound of rain on the roof. Even now, she’s part of every day I live, every breath I take, and every word I write. Though the road ahead feels uncertain, I hold on to the hope that she’s walking beside me, quietly reminding me to keep going, one day at a time.
October 21, 2025
Gray Tuesday
It’s Tuesday, October 21st, early afternoon, and the world outside my window wears a coat of gray. The sky is heavy, the air thick with rain, and everything feels as though it’s moving in slow motion. The day has been little more than a series of frustrations, small things, but enough to chip away at whatever strength I woke with this morning.
My brother-in-law stopped by earlier and stayed for a short while. It was good to see someone, to hear a voice besides my own echoing in the quiet rooms. For a half hour, the silence loosened its grip. But when he left, it settled right back in, deeper and heavier than before.
I had thought, fleetingly, about cooking something today, just to fill the house with the warmth and smell of food again, but the will wasn’t there. The motivation, like the sun, has gone missing behind the clouds. Instead, I wrestled with finances and computer screens, trying to make sense of an email system that refuses to cooperate. The endless spinning wheel tells me things are “syncing,” but I’m starting to wonder if that word is just another kind of false hope.
In moments like these, I miss Fran most, not just her laughter, but her steady presence beside me when life decided to tangle itself into knots. We would have puzzled through this together, her voice calm, her patience steady. Now the silence answers where she used to be, and it’s a silence that gnaws at the edges of my spirit.
A text message came earlier, my wife’s cousin. His wife has been readmitted to the hospital, and things don’t look good. I tried to offer comfort, but it’s hard to know what words to use when someone stands at the edge of loss. People mean well, but until you’ve walked that lonely path yourself, you can’t know how deep the ache goes or how endless the days can feel.
The truth is, getting old isn’t for the faint of heart. Each year feels heavier, the road narrower. When you lose the person who shared your world, the silence grows larger, and even the simplest moments, like a rainy afternoon, can feel impossible to bear.
So I wait, listening to the steady whisper of rain against the glass. Waiting for a call from the doctor’s office. Waiting for the clouds to break. Waiting, maybe, for a sign that tomorrow will bring a little more light.
When the Rain Won’t End
(for Fran)
The sky forgets its color again,
and the hours drift like slow gray smoke.
Nothing stirs but the steady tap of rain,
a sound too soft to fill the silence you left.
I sit beside the hum of waiting,
screens flickering, time refusing to move.
Even the clock seems tired of keeping count.
You’d have smiled at my frustration,
told me to walk away for a while,
make some coffee, breathe.
Now I speak those words aloud,
but they sound different without your voice.
The world keeps on with its small miseries,
failing signals, stubborn machines,
rain that won’t stop falling.
Still, beneath it all,
your absence hums like a second heartbeat,
quiet, constant,
and unbearably mine.
October 22, 2025
“Amber Dawn and Coffee Cake”
Before the world stirred, the house was still,
just the hum of the coffee maker
and the faint scent of morning beginning.
Darkness held the trees like a quiet promise,
and I waited,
not expecting much,
just watching the sky think about waking.
Then, a soft gold began to whisper
along the horizon’s edge,
and the low clouds caught fire,
first amber, then orange,
then a blaze of morning glory
stretching over the quiet fields.
For a few minutes,
the world seemed to remember how to shine.
I stood there,
cup in hand,
grateful to see the day begin this way,
to watch the light rise over what remains,
and to fill the house
with the warmth of coffee and
my grandmother’s old recipe,
still bringing sweetness
to another gray
October morning.
“The Warmth That Lingers”
Before the sun found its way above the trees
the house was quiet,
just the murmur of coffee,
the whisper of a spoon in a cup,
and the scent of something familiar
rising slow from the oven.
Outside, the sky blushed gold,
a shy glow breaking through the gray,
and I thought, for a moment,
how light always finds a way back,
even after the long dark.
The cakes came out perfect again,
the tops a soft brown crust,
the middle tender and sweet,
cinnamon curling through like memory.
Bob stopped by,
and for a while the house felt fuller,
a little laughter, a little warmth,
the kind that makes silence step aside.
I sent him home with a piece,
the same way Fran would have,
making sure someone else
tasted the comfort she once brought to my days.
And though she’s gone,
I still hear her voice in the gentle rhythm of morning,
in the steady pour of coffee,
in the scent that drifts from the oven,
in the way the sunlight rests on her favorite chair.
It’s strange how love can stay behind,
in the hum of small things,
in the warmth that lingers,
and in the sweetness
that refuses to fade.
“The Thermometer Incident”
I spent the afternoon chasing perfection,
stuffing made from scratch,
each cube of bread browned just right,
the scent of onions, mushrooms,and celery filling the kitchen
like the start of a Sunday feast.
I followed the recipe to the letter,
watched the timer, trusted the tools,
and still, the numbers made no sense.
Seventy degrees after an hour?
Impossible. The chicken’s browning,
but the thermometer insists it’s not done.
Then, the truth,
a single button,
a tiny switch between Fahrenheit and Centigrade,
and my masterpiece
had quietly crossed the line from tender to dry.
For a moment I just sat there,
laughing through the sigh.
I could almost hear her voice,
Fran, with that patient grin,
reminding me that multitasking
was never my strong suit.
She’d have had a good laugh over this one,
probably told me to stick to one thing at a time,
then helped me plate it anyway,
smiling as if it were the best dinner in the world,
and somehow, even now, I think she did.
Shortly afterward,
I set my table for one,
had a good laugh
at my trust in thermometers,
and wished she were here to laugh with me...
October 23, 2025
The Colors She Loved
This morning, the world is still gray,
the sky heavy with clouds,
the kind that hold back the sun,
and make you wonder if it ever rose at all.
Yet outside the patio doors,
a quiet transformation has begun.
Leaves that were green just yesterday
now shimmer in shades of gold, rust, and amber,
a soft reminder that even change can be beautiful.
I think of the days when Fran and I
would walk beneath trees just like these,
our hands brushing,
the air cool but sweet, with the scent of fallen leaves.
She always laughed at how often I stopped
to take “just one more picture,"
and I’d promise it was the last,
though she knew it never was.
We chased autumn
through the Pennsylvania hills,
down winding roads in West Virginia and Virginia,
all the way to North Carolina,
where the mountains burned with color
and the light seemed to linger just for us.
Now, as I stand here alone,
I still see her in the way the leaves turn,
in the calm water at Twin Lakes,
in every photo I never needed to take.
The season may pass,
the colors may fade,
but the love we carried through them all,
never does.
Where the Light Still Lives
The day never really brightened.
The clouds hung low, heavy as thought,
and the wind moved through the trees
with that soft, restless sigh that only October carries.
Inside, the air turned cool enough
to make me reach for the thermostat,
and when the heat came on,
its hum was the only sound,
besides my own breathing, in the stillness.
I took a bite of something warm,
pumpkin and spice, cream and crumb,
and for a moment,
the house didn’t feel quite so empty.
For a moment,
I could almost feel her there beside me,
smiling the way she used to
when something came out of the oven, just right.
The evenings stretch longer now,
the light fades faster,
and every sunset seems to come too soon.
But somewhere in that gray sky,
behind the clouds that never lift,
the sun still burns,
steady, unseen,
waiting to break through again.
And here, in this house
where the warmth still lingers in the air,
I keep that same kind of light,
quiet, constant,
and born of love that never leaves.
October 24, 2025
Morning Meditation — Friday, October 24, 2025 7:25 a.m.
I actually slept a bit later than usual this morning, which surprised me. After sitting in my living room chair around eight-thirty last night, I must have dozed off almost immediately. I woke up around eleven, watched the news for a while, and finally went to bed close to 1:00 am. To my surprise, I slept through the night and didn’t wake until nearly seven, something that rarely happens anymore.
Now, standing here with my first cup of coffee, I look out toward the horizon. The sky is heavy with clouds, but there are spaces between them, enough for the light to find its way through. It may turn out to be an impressive sunrise, though for now it remains muted and uncertain.
A little earlier, I had the pleasure of seeing Neal on his way to school. I’d been hoping to catch him so I could give him one of the pumpkin muffins I baked yesterday. I warmed it just a bit in the microwave before handing it to him. He was genuinely pleased, smiled, thanked me, and wished me a good weekend. I returned the sentiment. Such small exchanges add warmth to a day that might otherwise feel ordinary.
As I watch the sky, I notice how much further south the sun has moved since I last saw it rise. It now appears just to the right of the locust tree, the one where I still see Fran’s image every morning. The leaves are beginning to fall, and her image is fading slightly, yet she remains there, waiting patiently, reminding me gently, I’m still here.
Below the old locust stands a sassafras tree, its leaves almost a flaming crimson now, radiant and alive, though I know they’ll soon be gone. For now, I’m grateful to see it showing off one last burst of color.
Nearby, the ornamental grasses have grown tall, well over six feet this season. I usually have them cut back by this time of year, but I’ve let them stand longer than usual. By weekend’s end, I’ll need to trim them, run the mower over the cuttings, and add them to the compost pile. Over the years, I’ve found that nothing enriches the garden soil quite like that mulch, and it costs nothing but a bit of labor, which seems to grow heavier with time. Still, that’s the price we pay for the privilege of remaining here a little while longer, on this place we call Earth.
Continued — 7:45 a.m.
It’s nearing the time when the sunrise usually reaches its most colorful stage, though today the heavy clouds seem intent on keeping that beauty hidden. Thick and unmoving, they block nearly all the light that tries to break through. It doesn’t look like there will be much of a “late show” this morning.
Still, I stand here a moment longer, cup in hand, watching and waiting, because even the faintest light has its own quiet beauty. Perhaps it isn’t always about the spectacle, but simply the act of looking skyward and being present.
Soon enough, I’ll need to get moving and try to accomplish something, anything. before the day slips away. For now, though, I think I’ll pour another cup of coffee, breathe in the morning air, and hold on to a small hope that something good, however simple, might still unfold today.
Late this afternoon I received a text from my niece, telling me her mom has been having some very difficult times lately, dealing with the loss of her sister Fran.
Fran and her older sister, Linda, have been incredibly close for their entire lives. Both, along with their two younger brothers, one having passed at a very young age, have endured considerable hardship in their lives.
I also lost my older sister several years ago when she fell, on the way back from her mailbox, hit her head, and within two days passed from a resulting brain bleed/embolism. My sister and I were very close, but nowhere near as close as Fran and Linda. Having had to deal with so much loss in the past few years, I totally understand the depth of her grieving, therefore...
A poem composed for Linda, one that honors Fran, speaks to the unbreakable bond between sisters, and may offer some light amid all the grief, feels like a very meaningful and gentle gesture at this moment...
Here is something composed especially for Linda, in Fran’s loving memory:
“For My Sister, From Beyond the Silence”
There are threads no sorrow can sever,
Woven softly through heart and through years,
Tied by laughter, trials, and whispers,
And washed by our unnumbered tears.
You were the hand that held me steady,
The echo that knew every tone,
And though the world feels dim and heavy,
You are not walking it alone.
I’ve only stepped beyond the shadow,
Into light your eyes can’t see,
But love still finds its way through distance,
And still keeps watch for thee.
When you feel the hush of evening
Or the soft wind brush your face,
That’s me, reminding you, dear sister,
Our bond no time can displace.
So grieve not as one forsaken.
I live in every tender part,
Where memory breathes and faith awakens,
And love redeems the heart.
October 25, 2025
Afternoon Meditation
Saturday, October 25, 202512:30 p.m.
Just came back inside after spending some time outdoors doing a bit of yard work. It’s partly cloudy today but with plenty of sunshine, enough to make it comfortable and even pleasant to be outside. I started cutting down the ornamental grass, planning to later chop it up and add it to the compost pile, for next springs' planting.
I can’t say I made a lot of progress, though.
The truth is, I’m just getting too old for this kind of work.
Still, I do what I can.
Around eleven, I called my grandson. When he answered, he sounded a little groggy, I must’ve woken him up from his night’s sleep. He said he was just getting up anyway, as he had to take his girlfriend back to college today. I told him if he wasn’t too busy when he returned, I had some work that needed doing, and there’d be a little payday in it for him. He said he’d get back to me when he got home, or if not today, then tomorrow.
Depending on others is something I’m still getting used to. I’ve always been self-sufficient, and even when I needed help, I rarely asked for it. In the past, when I found myself in over my head with a project, I’d complain to Fran that it was “damn near impossible.” Somehow, though, I’d always find a way to get it done.
Back then, Fran seemed to know better than I did when I’d reached my limit. When she saw me struggling, she’d quietly get on the phone and call someone to come lend a hand. She had this uncanny way of knowing when I needed help, when I needed advice, or when I just needed a shoulder to lean on, all without me ever having to say a word.
Now that she’s gone, that understanding presence, that gentle nudge or reassuring voice, is missing. It leaves a silence that adds to the loneliness I feel each day.
Still, there’s no sense dwelling on what can’t be changed. The best I can do is keep moving, try to get something, anything, accomplished today. Sitting here thinking about the past won’t change it, though I suppose remembering it keeps her close, in its own quiet way.
Afternoon Meditation
Saturday, October 25, 20254:08 p.m.
Just came back in from the garden, or more accurately, from around its perimeter where I spent most of the day cutting down the ornamental grass that’s grown well over six feet tall. There’s quite a pile of it now waiting to be chopped and mulched for the compost bins, but that will have to wait for another day. I’m just too worn out for any more today.
I’m still picking a few tomatoes off the vines,
not many left now, just a handful of green ones slowly ripening. The season is nearly done. The temperature’s dropped since early afternoon, and I can feel a bit of a chill moving in. I’ll likely have to cover the plants on the deck again tonight, in case we get a frost.
I’m not sure what the rest of the day will bring, but I’m hoping it’s free of any bad news. My sister-in-law seems to be doing somewhat better, at least from what my nieces have told me. When I called to check in, I could hear her in the background calling out, “Hi Tony, how are you?” I couldn’t help but think, you’re asking how I am? The real question is, how are you?
Sometimes I just wish life would slow down, that the constant stream of crises would give us all a moment to breathe. Every day seems to bring something new to worry about, something else to weigh down the spirit. It’s exhausting trying to hold steady through it all.
My only bit of calm this evening is sitting here on the deck, gazing up at the old locust tree. I can see Fran there again, arms open, smiling down, trying to reassure me as she always did. Her silent message seems to echo through the rustling leaves: It’s going to be okay.
Evening Meditation
Saturday, October 25, 20255:30 p.m. — 8:30 p.m.
My grandson stopped over around five-thirty this evening. I honestly didn’t expect him at that hour, but he was eager to get started on the work that still needed to be done. Earlier in the day, I had managed to cut back most of the ornamental grass, at least the tallest and thickest of it, and had piled it high, ready to be chopped into finer pieces for the compost bins.
When he arrived, we talked for a while. It’s always nice to have someone to talk to besides myself. He said he wanted to get right to work and that whatever he didn’t finish tonight, he’d come back tomorrow to complete. Before he went outside, I asked if he’d eaten anything today. He said he’d had a little something but was fine.
I asked if he’d like me to make pizza for dinner. He mentioned that his mother, my daughter, had already told him. I’d mentioned it to her yesterday, though I hadn’t gotten a clear answer at the time. When he said that, I told him I’d go ahead and make the pizza and he could take some leftovers home for her.
He called her right then and asked if she wanted to come over. God bless him. She agreed, and about twenty minutes later she arrived while he was still outside working in the yard.
By around seven, just as the sun was setting, I called him in for dinner. We sat down together to homemade pizza, half pepperoni, sweet onions, and peppers, and the other half the same with mushrooms added for my daughter and me. Fresh mozzarella chunks on top of shredded mozzarella made it extra special. It turned out beautifully, but then again, it usually does now that I’ve finally discovered the secret, it’s all in the flour. It took me years of experimenting to realize you can’t make great pizza with all-purpose flour, you need to use 00 flour. That was the breakthrough.
For a guy who claimed he wasn’t hungry, my grandson made quick work of three slices in about five minutes. I didn’t mind a bit, seeing him enjoy something I made always brings a smile to my face.
About a half hour after dinner, even though it was fully dark outside, he decided to go back out and keep working. I told him it would be better to wait until tomorrow, but he was determined. He stayed out for another half hour before my daughter finally went to tell him it was time to call it a night.
They gathered their things and headed home, and just like that, the house was quiet again. Strangely, I found myself missing the sound of movement and voices, the life that filled the house for those few hours. I never thought I’d say it, but I’ve grown weary of the constant peace and stillness. As the days go by and loneliness continues to take hold, I’ve come to truly appreciate having people around, even if only for a little while.
October26,2025
October 26, 2025 – A Sunlit Moment
The sun pours over the deck, gentle and insistent, and I sit wrapped in its warmth. A jacket was unnecessary within minutes, now, in a simple T-shirt, the sunlight rests on my skin like a quiet blessing. Perhaps a touch of sunscreen is wise, but I savor the sensation all the same.
Coffee in hand, I think of the garden waiting below, of the last tasks to tuck it in for winter. Days like this are rare, and I want to hold each second, each ray, as if it were a gift I could carry forward.
The air is cool, but the sun softens it, and being outdoors on a clear, golden day fills the spirit in ways words can only gesture toward. There is a calm, a fullness, a sense that for this moment, everything is as it should be. Today, sun, warmth, and quiet labor, is a day more than anyone could ask for. May its memory linger.
Sunlit Day – Poetic Reflection
The sun warms my skin,
soft and insistent,
as the garden sleeps
beneath its bright light.
In these rare, golden moments,
my spirit feels full
and quietly at peace.
Hands in soil,
heart lifted high,
I sense autumn
breathing contentment
all around me.
Sun on bare forearms,
the garden rests,
and the day stretches long
with calm filling
the quiet air.
Even as winter whispers
on the breeze,
joy lingers in the warmth
and light,
a gentle reminder
of how rare and precious
days like this truly are.
Autumn’s Gentle Truth
October 26, 2025 – Sunday Afternoon, 3:16 PM
I came up from the garden,
hands rich with the scent of soil and endings,
yet the earth, stubborn in her giving,
offered more than I expected.
I gathered what I could,
hesitant to pull life still trying to live.
One grape tomato plant remains,
tiny green promises clinging to the vine,
and the basil, wild and willful,
still reaching skyward.
I pinch off the seed pods
as if I could hold back time itself,
keep things growing a little longer,
one more day, one more breath.
The air today was perfect,
cool, clear, the sun soft as a hand
laid gently across my shoulders.
Not enough to make me sweat,
just enough to remind me I’m still here,
still blessed by warmth, by light, by living.
The nights creep colder now,
the edges of frost testing the ground,
and the trees burn brighter for it,
fiery golds and reds before the quiet.
It never lasts, this beauty.
But then again, what does?
Maybe that’s the point,
to marvel while it’s here,
to bow to the cycle that spins
beyond our control.
If there’s a fountain of youth out there,
I haven’t found it,
and I suppose that’s fine.
The season still has lessons left to give.
October 27, 2025
Softly Extended
Monday Morning, October 27
It’s 8:30 on a Monday morning, and I find myself on the third cup of coffee, gazing out through the window at an almost perfect sky, soft blue, calm, and nearly cloudless. It feels like the start of a lovely day, at least in the way weather can whisper its promises before the day has found its shape.
I haven’t quite decided what I’ll do with it yet. Most likely, some cooking or baking will make its way into the rhythm of the day. I have a stack of recipes laid out on the counter that I’ve been meaning to try. The garden is tucked in for winter now, and without its daily pull, the hours feel both open and uncertain.
The quietness, the stillness, the deep, unbroken tranquility of this house has become something of a paradox. At times, it soothes me, other times, it stirs a hollow ache. I remember, years ago, when our children had grown and moved out. I’d turn to Fran and say, “Do you hear that?”
She’d tilt her head, listening, and answer, “I don’t hear anything.”
And I’d smile and say, “Yeah… isn’t it great?”
She never found that funny. Fran loved the sound of life in this house, the voices, the laughter, even the occasional squabble. When the grandchildren came along, it was as if all that joy returned to her in new, golden form. She glowed in their company. The smiles, the frowns, the tears of joy, all of it made the walls feel alive again.
I suppose I miss that now. But not nearly as much as I miss her.
Still, the morning sunlight falls across the table just so, and I take another slow sip of coffee. Life, in its quiet persistence, continues on. Perhaps that’s enough for today, to notice it, to feel it, to make the best of what remains.
Journal Entry
Monday, October 27,
2025“Seasoned With Love”
It’s just about five o’clock now, and I’ve finally finished cleaning up what can only be described as a full-blown kitchen disaster zone. The day was devoted almost entirely to cooking and baking, and though it left a fair bit of mess behind, it was a good kind of mess, the kind that feels like accomplishment.
My sister-in-law just got home from the hospital and has dental work scheduled for tomorrow, so I figured she and her daughters could probably use something comforting to eat. By the time the last timer went off, I had a dozen coffee cake muffins cooling on the counter, half a dozen blueberry muffins (the batter didn’t stretch quite as far as I’d hoped), two white pizzas with fresh tomatoes, basil, and mozzarella, one pepperoni and mushroom pizza, and three steak, pepper, mushroom and cheese calzones filled, and baked to a golden brown.
I couldn’t help but laugh when I opened the freezer and saw those blueberries my brother-in-law gave me a while back — the size of marbles, I swear. Biggest I’ve ever seen. They made for some fine muffins, though. I even thought about adding nuts to the coffee cake batch but decided against it, knowing my sister-in-law will have enough to contend with after her dental procedure.
The photo I took pretty much says it all, the trays lined with baked goods, the fresh basil sitting in a glass on the counter, and the little sign above the stove that reads, “This Kitchen is Seasoned with Love.” It couldn’t have been more fitting.
All day long, while I mixed, baked, and cleaned, I kept thinking about Fran. Maybe it was the rhythm of cooking, or maybe just that quiet pull the heart feels sometimes, but she was right there with me today. I kept drifting back to the days I like to think of as “Fran BC,” Fran before children. Our college years, when we were young, full of dreams, and didn’t yet realize how precious those days really were.
It’s funny how time shifts your perspective. You reach an age where you finally see how good the good old days truly were, and though it hurts a little, there’s comfort in remembering. The memories bring her close, especially when I’m in the kitchen. She always did say that food made with care carries love in every bite.
Tonight, as I look around at the counter, at all the food I made for others, I can almost feel her presence again. I imagine her smile, that approving look she’d give when something came out just right.
And so the day ends as it began: quietly, with love, the kind that lingers long after the oven cools.
October 28, 2025
Simple Acts, Steady Hearts
Journal Entry – Tuesday, October 28
The morning broke cold and still, a pale light spreading slowly across the sky as I rose just after six. By the time I stepped outside, the air carried that unmistakable bite that says autumn is loosening its hold.
I waited for Neal to pass by on his way to school, hands tucked in my pockets, the chill settling deep into my bones. When he arrived, I handed him a couple of the coffee cake muffins I’d baked. He smiled and told me he and his brother had cooked something with peppers from their garden this past summer, said he’d drop some off for me later today. I told him I’d love to try it.
Before he went on his way, I mentioned that it was getting too cold to wait out here much longer. We made a little pact, if ever I have something for him, I’ll leave the light on up by the gable. That way he’ll know to stop, just give a quick knock, and I’ll make sure he gets it. It’s a simple exchange, yet it holds the quiet comfort of neighborly care, a thread of kindness stretched across generations.
Yesterday evening I made a pot of tortellini soup, vegetable stock, spinach, fresh carrots, onions, garlic and tortellini, something my sister-in-law could manage after her oral surgery.
I’ll send that along today, along with a steak, mushroom, and pepper calzone, a white pizza, and some muffins. I imagine my nieces will handle the heartier fare while their mother recovers, but that’s all right. In times like these, sharing food feels like sharing warmth itself.
After that, I have a few small tasks calling my name: the laundry, the blog’s resource page that’s been waiting patiently for an update, and maybe, if weather allows, a coat of wax on the car. I’ve always done a full detail before winter, one last gesture of care before the salt and cold take their toll. Whether I manage it this year depends on time and strength. Hiring someone isn’t an option, the satisfaction comes from doing it myself.
Bob called last night, asking if I’d join him and his wife at an event on Thursday. I told him it would depend on the weather, I’ve grown less tolerant of cold and damp these days. He also told me about the Big Brothers Big Sisters auction he attended, where his son bid on a fishing trip for two along the Youghiogheny River next spring, for his dad, and with me in mind. That kind of thoughtfulness stays with a man.
Bob’s one of the few true friends I have left, steady, kind, dependable. He checks in every few days, sometimes with a call, sometimes with a visit. No grand gestures, just presence, and in that, there’s a deep sort of grace.
It occurs to me how much of life’s goodness rests in these quiet, unspoken exchanges: a warm meal made with care, a porch light left on, a friend’s voice on the line. Small lights, steady and enduring, that carry us through the coldest seasons.
Even on a quiet day marked by discomfort and fatigue, small acts of kindness wove their way through the hours, a shared meal, a thoughtful visit, a simple call of thanks. This reflection reminds us that generosity and care have a way of circling back, even when we least expect it.
Acts of Kindness and Quiet Gratitude
Tuesday Evening Reflections
It’s about 7:20 on Tuesday evening, and I’m just sitting down to jot a few notes for the blog. I wasn’t feeling quite up to snuff today, some abdominal discomfort and a general sense of weakness. I’ve got an appointment with the doctor tomorrow at 8 a.m., and I’m hoping he can shed some light on what’s going on.
Neal texted this afternoon inviting me to join him and his brother for dinner, but I had to decline since my niece was stopping by to pick up food for my sister-in-law, and I wasn’t sure when she’d arrive.
True to form, Neal’s brother Clay showed up around six, delivering a delicious home-cooked dinner right to my door. I returned the favor by sending him off with a container of tortellini soup.
A little while later, Neal stopped by thinking his brother was still here. We chatted for a bit before he had to head out to tutor.
My niece arrived about an hour and a half later and texted me afterward to say how much she enjoyed the food, thanking me again for preparing it. She mentioned she’d be bringing the soup and muffins to her mom tomorrow.
My daughter also stopped in around four to bring me some Advil, insisting I take a couple to help with the discomfort. I’ve never been one to rely on medication, but I took them, partly to ease the pain and partly to keep her happy.
Before my daughter left, I gave her four muffins and another container of soup to take home. She called about half an hour ago to say how much she loved the soup, and that her husband and son really enjoyed the calzone. She laughed, saying the muffins would soon be gone too.
So much for this day. I think I’ll turn in early tonight, I’ll need to be up and out by seven AM to make my doctor’s appointment. The office is a bit farther than I’d prefer, but when they called this morning with a cancellation in a nearby town, I said I’d be there.
Closing Reflection
Even on a day when strength feels low, kindness has a way of circling back, in a meal delivered, a visit at the door, a call of thanks, or a daughter’s caring insistence.
Life seems to remind me, again and again, that giving and receiving are part of the same gentle rhythm, and for that, I’m grateful.
October 29, 2025
Todays doctors visit captured both frustration and fatigue, not just with today’s appointment, but with the whole history of what Fran and I endured together in the medical system. Yet it’s understandable that sitting in another waiting room and driving 45 minutes to see yet another doctor feels like reopening old wounds.
A Morning of Reluctance and Memory
Wednesday, October 29 – Early Morning Reflection
It’s 6:23 AM on Wednesday morning. I’ve been up since 5:30, trying to get everything done before my doctor’s appointment at 8:00.
I’ve been trying for weeks to get an appointment without much luck. Finally, when I called again yesterday, they found an opening, but at another office, much farther away than I expected. It’ll take me at least forty-five minutes, maybe more, just to get there. I’m not happy about that, but it is what it is.
Truth be told, I’ve never been much of a fan of doctors. I’ve never had much faith in them. To me, they’re a bit like weather forecasters, making educated guesses that often turn out wrong. Then you go back again, and they try something else, and the cycle continues.
Until last October, I had never been on any regular medication in my entire life. But because Fran wasn’t doing well, I decided it was time to go in for a physical. After that visit, I suddenly found myself prescribed three medications I now have to take daily. Needless to say, I wasn’t happy about it, but what choice did I really have other than to follow their instructions?
I’ve seen more than my fair share of doctors over the years, especially while caring for Fran and all the health battles she faced. For the most part, they never impressed me much.
One memory still haunts me. Last March, Fran was scheduled for a surgical procedure. She’d gone through all the required tests, but just before the surgery, we were told it had to be postponed because of a medication she had been taking, something no one had warned us about beforehand. By the time everything could be rescheduled, it was too late. They could no longer do the surgery she needed.
To this day, I believe she might still be here if that surgery had gone as planned. It’s hard not to feel anger, a deep, helpless anger, at the incompetence that cost her what might have been precious time.
There were plenty of other issues and disappointments along the way that I won’t get into now, because even thinking about them brings too much pain and stress.
All I can do this morning is hope that today’s appointment sheds some light on what’s been going on with me lately. Time will tell. I just hope it doesn’t take too long, because honestly, with how I’ve been feeling these past few days, I’m not sure how much time I have left to spare.
Wednesday Afternoon Reflections
It’s currently about 3:32 on Wednesday afternoon, and I managed to make it to my doctor’s appointment at 8 a.m. this morning. I actually arrived about twenty minutes early, which turned out to be a good thing, they handed me a stack of forms that looked about as thick as a doctoral thesis. It took me the better part of half an hour to fill everything out before I was finally called in.
Unfortunately, the physician assistant discovered some abnormalities and wants me to get several tests and blood work done. Since he wasn’t the primary doctor, he also wants me to come back to see one of the doctors in the practice for further evaluation, and possibly some procedures down the line, hopefully not too far into the future.
On my way to the appointment, I was traveling east. Just as I crested the hill before the Laurel Mountains, the sun was rising over the ridges. The sight was truly magnificent. Had I not been worried about getting to the appointment on time, I would have surely stopped to take a few photographs. It was one of those moments where the world feels perfectly still and alive at once.
I found myself describing the sunrise to the physician assistant, but he looked at me as if I’d gone off track, as though a sunrise had no relevance in a medical discussion. I couldn’t help but think he might need to reevaluate what’s truly important in life. There’s so much beauty right in front of us if we just take the time to notice. Still, he was all business, and when it comes to my health, perhaps that’s a good thing.
On the way home, I stopped at the Italian market and picked up some cheese, fresh homemade tortellini, and a special variety of pasta they make that’s not available anywhere else. I use that pasta to make an Italian seafood and pasta salad, so when I saw it on the shelf, I decided to buy some, maybe I’ll make that later this week.
As I was walking through the market, I passed by the rustic Italian bread that I used to buy so often. I couldn’t help but chuckle when I saw the price, eight dollars a loaf! It looked as delicious as ever, but I said to myself, “Not anymore.” Ever since I started baking my own, I’ve realized that mine tastes just as good, perhaps even better, than what they’re selling now. One of these days, I’ll have to sit down and figure out exactly how much it’s costing me per loaf to make it at home. Of course, there’s no labor cost involved since I’m doing it myself, but I’m curious to see how my homemade version compares to the market’s $7.99 loaf.
When I got back home, I made a pot of Sunday sauce, even though it’s only Wednesday. For those unfamiliar, Italians traditionally make Sunday sauce on Sunday, and it always has some type of meat as its base. I’ve always used pork, following Fran’s instructions, and it never fails to come out delicious.
Once the sauce was simmering, I made a few phone calls to schedule the tests and procedures the doctor’s office requested. By the time I finished, I realized just how drained I was, between the anxiety of the appointment and only three or four hours of sleep last night, I’m completely spent. I may sit down for a short nap before tackling anything else today.
With all that I have written regarding cooking, baking, and food preparation in general I think, perhaps, I may add another section to this blog, that includes the recipes that I have talked about and/or photographed. Although I'm not certain that a blog such as this should include said content, I am sure that the diversion created by such activity has helped me, in particular, through numerous agonizing days. My primary reason for all the cooking and baking is not to feed myself, but instead to keep my mind off of all the pain, agony, and frustration of losing the love of my life.
October 30. 2025
Morning Reflections — From the Kitchen Window
Thursday, October 30 — Gray Skies and Heavy Thoughts
Some mornings bring a heaviness that no amount of coffee can quite lift, when the world outside feels gray, and thoughts drift toward what’s missing, what’s uncertain, and what still gives us comfort in small, familiar ways.
It’s almost 8:30 AM on this Thursday morning. I was up around 6:30, had a few cups of coffee, and looked outside only to be greeted by an extremely gray, overcast sky and a light rain. The forecast calls for considerably more rain throughout the day, into the evening, and into tomorrow morning, one to one and a half inches expected.
Not exactly the kind of day I look forward to, so it seems I’ll be spending it baking and cooking. I’m currently making pumpkin spice sugar cookies. My daughter stopped by a few days ago with two bags of pumpkin spice chips and asked if I could make some cookies for her. I told her I would, but probably not right away, maybe on a day when I couldn’t go outside or when the weather was just too dreary. Well, I guess today is that day.
I turned on the morning news for a few minutes, only to get frustrated again by the dysfunction of our government, legislators and senators collecting their paychecks while so many hard-working Americans struggle because those in charge can’t seem to do their jobs.
Since Fran’s passing, I find myself thinking often about how hard it’s going to be for the younger generation to simply get by, let alone find real success. Every day it feels like the deck is being stacked higher against ordinary citizens, especially those who are underprivileged, underemployed, or undereducated
People keep saying things will get better, that they always do. I can’t help asking myself, will it be too late by the time they do? Will those at the bottom ever be able to climb out of the rabbit hole we seem to be digging deeper with each passing day?
Between the gray skies and these heavy thoughts, I can only hope that the day, and maybe the world, finds a way to brighten.
Maybe the warmth of the oven, the scent of pumpkin and spice, and a small act of love shared through a simple cookie can be a quiet reminder that light still finds its way in, even on the darkest of days.
From the Kitchen
A Rainy Day Lasagna Twist
With the rain coming down steady and the skies showing no sign of clearing, it felt like the perfect kind of day to stay inside and experiment in the kitchen.
Today I decided to try something a little different, a twist on lasagna. I browned a mixture of ground beef, ground pork, and ground veal with onions and peppers until everything was beautifully caramelized and fragrant.
Next, I cooked down some spinach and chopped it into fine shreds. Then I laid out the cooked lasagna noodles on parchment paper, spread each one with a layer of ricotta cheese, and followed with a mixture of the seasoned meats, Parmesan, mozzarella, spinach, and a touch of Italian seasoning.
Once that was done, I spooned a thin layer of sauce over the filling and carefully rolled each noodle into a pinwheel-style lasagna roll. I lined the bottom of a foil pan with some homemade sauce, nestled the rolls in, and then drizzled more sauce over the top. A generous sprinkle of Parmesan and Romano cheese finished it off.
Baked at 350°F for about an hour and ten minutes, the kitchen filled with that unmistakable aroma of comfort food at its best. Even though I say so myself, they turned out very tasty, all the rich flavor of traditional lasagna, but with far less effort and a touch of creativity.
A bit time-consuming, yes, but not nearly as tedious as layering an entire pan. And on a day like this, with the weather gray and uninviting, it was the perfect way to pass the time, and to bring a little warmth back into the house.
A cozy kitchen experiment on a stormy Thursday afternoon.
October 31, 2025
Reflective Journal Entry
This morning began in darkness. I awoke around 5:45, looked out into the stillness, and decided to rest a bit longer. When I drifted back to sleep, something remarkable happened, something that has not occurred since Francine passed.
I dreamt, or perhaps saw, her. She was seated in a well-lit room, calm, serene, and somehow beyond my reach. I felt as though I were standing just outside a doorway, looking in. She seemed to know I was there, but her gaze remained fixed elsewhere, not coldly, but with a quiet gentleness, as if to say, “Not yet. You can’t come in just now.”
When I awoke, the sky outside was still thick with clouds, heavy and gray. But then, almost imperceptibly, the light began to break through, streaks of gold and blue piercing the morning haze.
I stepped outside, the air biting and cold, and stood watching as the sunrise unfolded into something spectacular. Considering the vision I had only moments before, it felt impossible to see this as coincidence. The timing, Halloween morning, a day when ancient people believed the veil between worlds grew thin, struck a chord deep within me. Were they sensing something we’ve forgotten?
My analytical mind argues that it’s all chance: weather patterns, sleep cycles, and memory colliding. Yet my heart refuses to let it go. The sequence feels too intimate, too intentional, to dismiss outright. Maybe this was a gift, not one to solve, but one simply to receive. Loss has a way of changing how we perceive the world. It blurs the line between coincidence and meaning, between what is seen and what is felt. I don’t know if this morning’s vision was a message, but it has left a trace in me, a reminder that love continues to reach across boundaries, sometimes in the language of light and silence.
Poetic Meditation — “The Sky Spoke in Light”
Before dawn,
I saw her, sitting in a room
of calm and brightness,
just beyond a doorway I could not cross.
Her face was peaceful,
her silence tender.
She knew I stood there,
but her eyes turned elsewhere,
as if to whisper through stillness:
“Not yet, Tony.
The time will come, but not yet.”
Then the world returned,
gray sky, cold air,
a morning wrapped in clouds and doubt.
Slowly
the clouds began to open,
light spilling upward,
gold brushing the edges of everything.
I stood watching,
breath rising in the chill,
and felt the strange certainty
that she had sent this dawn to me,
a sign,
a comfort,
a quiet bridge of color between our worlds.
Whether dream or truth,
message or mercy,
I only know this:
the light spoke her name,
and for a moment,
I believed.
More to come...
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