On Grief and Grieving - October 2025

October 1, 2025

Opening October

October, you arrive with new light,

with skies that burn orange at dawn,

and leaves that whisper of change.

I step into you carrying love, carrying memory,

carrying hope that grief and beauty

can walk side by side.

Here begins another chapter, a turning page,

yet with the same thread of devotion, woven through each day.

Wednesday, October 1, Afternoon Reflections

It's almost 3:00 PM on Wednesday afternoon. Earlier today I made a trip to the grocery store, I'm not sure why even bother sometimes but I suppose it gives me something to do. Afterward I came home as I usually do with the thought of cooking or baking, often more food than I could possibly eat by myself.

I've just finished my afternoon coffee, and soon I'll head to the kitchen to start preparing the cinnamon rolls I plan to bring to the doctor's office tomorrow.

I don't go to the doctors very often, and truth be told, I've developed a bit of a distaste for them since Frans passing. It feels unfair, but I remind myself they are only messengers, doing the best they can within their limits.

When I go, I almost always bring something, doughnuts, pastries, some sort of sweet treat. The staff are always so appreciative, and I can't help but think that it isn't something many people do, especially these days when everything is so expensive. But I remind myself that those folks are just people like the rest of us, with families, bills, and lives to carry on. They deserve a bit of sweetness once in a while too.

At the market I also picked up some fresh beets, which I'll soon roast for a salad. There's nothing quite like the earthy sweetness of roasted beets alongside greens, and the rest of those greens are still coming from my garden. Amazing for October 1st. Considering how little I've tended it lately, it continues to give even as the season winds down. The tomatoes are nearly finished, except for a few grape tomatoes that might linger a bit longer. If the weather holds anything at all like today, which has been absolutely gorgeous, I'll soon begin clearing out the garden and turning the soil in preparation for the next season.

I find myself hoping I'll be here to plant again next spring, but if not that's OK too!

October 2, 2025

It's late morning now and I've just returned from my doctor's appointment, where unexpectedly three suspicious moles had to be removed. Not the news I was hoping for, but the doctor assured me that when caught early these things rarely cause trouble. Still it lingers in the back of my mind.

Before the appointment I handed over the cinnamon rolls I had baked to the young lady at the desk. She thanked me warmly and soon the other women in the office joined in with smiles and gratitude, delighted to have something sweet with their morning coffee. A small offering but it seemed to bring a bit of cheer.

When the doctor entered the room, as always he greeted me with," Tony how we doing today." Since it had been a year since I'd last seen him I told him the truth, that Fran had passed and that I was trying to cope as best I could. He expressed his sympathies with genuine kindness before we turned to the matter at hand.

His office sits across the highway from where Fran and I spent our first night as husband and wife, at the old Mountain View Inn, long since torn down and replaced. That memory prompted me to tell him the story of our meeting with the family priest all those years ago. After he had recited what the church required, the priest solemnly asked, "do either of you have any reservations about this marriage." With a mischievous smirk I had replied, "yes we do, at the Mountain View Inn honeymoon suite, on the evening of January 8th, 1972. The priest didn't find that amusing at the time, but today the doctor got a hearty laugh out of it.

When I returned home, I poured my 4th cup of coffee and sat out on the deck letting the autumn sunshine warm me. The sky was clear and blue decorated, with just a scattering of wispy clouds. I don't know exactly what the rest of this day will bring. Perhaps I will spend a little time in the garden, on such a beautiful day the earth calls out for tending.

October 3, 2025

October 3, 2025 7:30 am

I've been sitting here on the deck for half an hour watching the slow unfolding of a fall sunrise, the sky shifts moment by moment, pale blue softening into pink, gold, and orange, a quiet masterpiece painted in fleeting strokes.

The air feels hushed holding me in stillness. Empty chairs surround me yet I can't help but wish one of them wasn't empty. How I long for you to be here beside me, to share this simple breathtaking wonder. It's in these small beautiful moments watching the world wake up, watching the light change, that I feel your absence most, and yet somehow your nearness too.

As I look eastward, I feel you Fran, watching from a horizon I cannot see. Perhaps the same light that warms my face now shines upon your soul. Perhaps the same colors I marvel at are mirrored in your heaven. Though distance and time divide us, the sunrise does not. Its beauty belongs to us both. A gift given twice, to me here, to you there, so we may still share the morning together.

A Sunrise Prayer for Fran

This morning light, Oh Lord,

I offer us a prayer for Fran.

the colors that rise in the sky,

let them rise also in her eternal joy.

Though I sit here alone,

I believe she sees this beauty too,

from a horizon my eyes cannot reach.

May this sunrise be our meeting place,

where earth and heaven touch,

where love is never broken.

Bless her spirit with peace,

bless my heart with comfort,

and let each dawn remind me

that she is near,

not gone only changed,

forever held in your light.

Amen, and bless you Franny!

Mourning a beautiful morning...

Living What I Once Only Knew

I used to believe I understood grief.

I told others, with what I thought was kindness,

that time would teach them how to move on,

that dwelling on pain would not bring their loved one back.

But now I know different.

Now I live inside the loss itself,

and I see how easy it is to speak

when you have not been broken.

Grief is not a lesson you can learn

through another's story.

It is hollowing,

a tearing away of breath and light,

that cannot be imagined

until you stand within it.

I hide much of it from others.

I smile, I carry on.

I try not to burden them.

But within me the sorrow roars,

a storm unrelenting, a weight

I would not wish on anyone.

Fran knew, she told me time

and time again,

that I would miss her

when she was gone.

She understood our bond

more deeply than I could see

in those days.

She knew the shape of this emptiness

before I had to face it.

And she was right...

In every breath I take,

in every moment

I must spend without her.

She is present in the absence,

woven into the ache, and into

the love that no loss can erase.

In Loving Memory of My Precious Franny

Before the days of children,

there were days of wonder.

Two young hearts a modest home,

dreams too large for the walls that held them.

I wanted to conquer the world,

she reminded me gently that love itself was enough.

Fran new hardship but carried no bitterness.

where others might have seen only struggle,

she found contentment in the simplest blessings.

A roof, a meal, the laughter we shared,

the quiet peace of being together. Her happiness

was my compass, her love, my steady ground.

Together we built a life,

two children, five grandchildren,

a home woven from years of faith,

sacrifice and unshakable devotion.

The cars were old, the luxuries few,

but our love was new each morning,

and that was wealth enough.

She was tested again and again,

a stroke, a heart attack, cancer, surgery,

and finally the heavy shadow of COPD.

Each time she rose fierce and unyielding,

fighting not for herself alone

but for all of us who loved her.

Her courage was a light,

her presence a gift,

her love a river flowing through

every life she touched.

I grieve the time that was lost,

the moments denied,

the tenderness cut short by frailty

and failing hands.

But I give thanks for every year,

every hour, every breath we shared.

Frans love does not end.

It is stitched into the fabric of our family,

it echoes in the laughter of grandchildren,

it rests in the quiet places of my heart.

She was my partner,

my anchor,

my joy,

and she remains

not gone,

but transformed.

Love like ours does not die.

It abides,

it carries me still.

At Sunset

As the day folds into evening, dear God,

I offer this sunset as a prayer for Fran.

The colors fading into gold and violet

Let them be a gentle cloak of peace

around her soul.

Though the sun slips from my sight,

I believe its light still shines for her,

beyond the veil where night never falls.

May this sunset be our promise kept,

that love endures even in the dark

and we remain bound by your eternal light.

Bless her with rest,

bless me with hope,

and let each sunset remind me

that goodbyes are never final,

they are only shadows,

before the dawn we will share again.

Amen, until tomorrow... Still loving you all ways and always!

October 4, 2025

For as long as I can remember, when Fran was here with me, I always preferred rooms with just enough light, or perhaps none at all. She, on the other hand, liked brightness. I can still hear myself saying turn off the lights, there's no need for all these lights to be on, it's just a waste of electricity. She would turn to me, give me that little knowing smile and say, "if having the lights on makes me happy it should make you happy too, so just turn them back on and enjoy it with me."

Since her passing I find myself turning on lights, usually dim, but on nonetheless and leaving them that way, even when I leave the room. There's something about the darkness now that feels heavier, it seems to deepen the sadness that already sits quietly within me.

My daughter called last night, and asked if I wanted to join her and her husband for an Apple festival on Sunday, in a nearby town. I told her I wasn't sure, that I don't plan that far ahead anymore. After all, no one really knows what tomorrow will bring so what's the point in making plans. But even as I said it I could hear Fran's voice reminding me that joy often hides in the smallest invitation, that life doesn't always wait for certainty.

Later last night, as I sat at my computer working on my blog, I found myself marveling at how far technology has come.

I am sitting in front of this screen talking to it, and it talks back, it listens, it responds, it feels strangely human in its understanding. It's amazing really, as a child the big tech was a black and white television with a 12 inch screen. You often had a fiddle with the horizontal and vertical knobs just to get a decent picture. Now I sit here in a world where voices come through invisible signals and screens light up at a touch. Technology has advanced so quickly it makes me wonder where it's all headed, and as much as I have often said that if everything's stopped tomorrow I'd be fine with it, I think a part of me would still wish to see what comes next. The boy I once was would have called that magic.

I suppose I'll pour another cup of coffee and step out onto the deck to see what kind of sunrise awaits me today. The sky looks clear, no clouds, nothing dramatic expected, but perhaps just witnessing the sunrise, being here to see it all, is reason enough to be grateful, to see the light return, is miracle enough.

Saturday Morning and the Taste of Memory

It's about 7:30 am now, coffee in hand, eyes wide open, I step out onto the deck. The sun has just crested the horizon, spilling pale shades of orange and yellow into the cool morning air, fading softly into blue. Not a single cloud in the sky, perhaps a promise that the day ahead will be kind.

Last night after dinner, a thought stirred quietly in my mind. Fran would like to have some chocolate chip cookies tonight, and so without much hesitation I set to work, another late night baking session, part ritual, part comfort and of course I made them without nuts. That was always our good natured debate, I love nuts in my cookies, she preferred them without nuts. Every time she'd asked me to bake chocolate chip cookies she'd say "no nuts please." When I would tease her about it, she'd smile and say "there are enough nuts in this world, I don't need them in my chocolate chip cookies," it makes me smile even now.

This morning standing at the back door watching the sunrise I felt her again, just a whisper of her presence, as if she were gently suggesting, "spaghetti to day?" That was her favorite meal, homemade pasta, red tomato sauce simmering slowly on the stove, a fragrance that filled the whole house with warmth and memory. So that's what I'll do shortly, make her sauce again, it feels right.

Still the nights remain the hardest. When I go to bed, I still reach over to kiss her good night but she's not there. There's only her pillow, soft, still faintly familiar, I caress it, touch my lips to it, and whisper goodnight Franny. Then the tears come, quietly, without protest, my mind tells me what it always does, that she's gone and that I need to let go, to get a grip, as she might have said in her practical way. But that love doesn't live in logic, it lives in literal rituals, in the light left on, in the cookies without nuts, the sauce simmering on a quiet Saturday morning, and the sunrise, that even in its silence, reminds me that she is still near.

The Measure of Her Strength

Fran was always petite, delicate in frame, graceful in movement, as though she were made of something lighter than air. For someone who loved pasta as much as she did one might have expected her to gain a little weight over the years, but she never did. All through our marriage she hovered gently between 100 and 110 pounds, her spirit far greater than her size.

In her final years the weight began to slip away, COPD made even breathing a battle, and the simple act of eating became an exhaustion she could barely endure. When she passed she weighed only 68 pounds. It hurts to even write those words. Watching her fade before my eyes was a pain too great to measure. Each day a little less of her body, yet somehow more of her courage. Even as her strength dwindled she never stopped fighting, she clung fiercely to life, grasping, holding, living on love and willpower alone. There were days when I would look at her frail as a whisper, and see the same woman who once filled our home with laughter, light, and the aroma of her favorite sauce, simmering on the stove.

To witness her struggle was both an honor and a heartbreak. It tore me up in ways I still don't fully understand. Each breath she fought for felt like one of my own. Each moment she endured became a lesson in love's endurance. When she finally could fight no more something inside me went quiet too, a part of my purpose, my reason for moving forward, seemed to go with her.

Even now, when I think back, I weep not out of weakness but out of reverence for the strength she showed, for the love we shared, and for the way she taught me what it truly means to stay, even as everything else slips away. Fran may have been small but her presence filled a lifetime, and though she's gone, I carry her still, in every breath, in every quiet moment, in every act of care, that keeps her light alive.

 By late morning the sauce was simmering filling the kitchen with its slow rich perfume.  Fresh basil from the garden lay in a small pile on the counter.   Far more than I needed, so there will be pesto later. The pot, or my cauldron, as I call it, held enough for a family, for a memory, for a ritual.

As I stirred, I did what I have always done, tapped the wooden spoon on the edge of the sauce pan.  When Fran was here she would roll her eyes and laugh, telling me the sound was driving her crazy.  "Would you please stop that tapping," she would say.  Then I would grin, tap once more and carry on.

​ Today I found myself doing it again, waiting instinctively for her voice, of course there was no reply.   But then a few minutes later, as I stirred again, I heard a faint tapping.   At first I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. I listen closely, tapped again, the sound came back a faint answer.

I set the spoon down and searched the house, certain I was imagining things.  But the tapping was real.  It wasn't in my head.  Coffee in hand, I stepped out onto the deck, scanning the tree line, and then I saw it.

A woodpecker in the locust tree, hammering out its rhythm, exactly where I so often see Fran's image in the canopy.

Coincidence? Maybe.  But maybe not.  Maybe it was a small miracle, a reminder, a gentle calling out, letting me know she's watching.  I've never been one to believe in miracles.

But if this was one, I'll take it.

The Miracle of the Tapping

The tapping drove her batty....

October 5, 2025

It's early Sunday morning, about 7:30 AM, and as I gazed eastward out my back door, I can't help but notice how much further the sun rises each day. Another small reminder that the colder months are quickly approaching. It's been incredibly difficult since Frans passing, she's with me constantly, in thought, in memory, and everything I do. There's not a single moment in the day when she isn't present in some way, the ache of her absence is overwhelming, and though I know she will always live within me, the pain of that knowing is hard to carry.

These past few weeks the weather has been merciful. Warm days cool nights and refreshingly crisp mornings, but I find myself worrying about the winter ahead. I feel the stillness of being trapped inside this house alone with my thoughts, when the world outside turns cold and quiet.

I try to stay busy, knowing it helps to quiet the ache, even if only for a little while. But there are days when my thoughts spiral back into grief and I find myself caught between two truths, my mind telling me I must move forward, and my heart clinging fiercely to what was.

I know life is too short to dwell in anger and resentment, yet I struggle to let go. My heart wants to hold on, even when my head knows I must learn to live anew.

Still, in the morning light, I remind myself love doesn't die, it changes form. Maybe in some quiet way the warmth of her spirit still rises with the sun, just a little further south each day, yet always shining on the path ahead.

Preparing for Winter

The days are growing shorter now, each morning the sun rises a little further south and the cool air carries a whisper of what's to come. I can feel the slow approach of winter in my bones, that long still season when the world narrows and the silence deepens.

This year the thought of it weighs heavy. Since losing Fran, the quiet has become both a comfort and a torment. The stillness that once felt peaceful now echoes too loudly, reminding me of all that's gone. I know the cold months will test me, the gray skies, the early darkness, the hours spent alone in this house that still holds her presence in every corner.

I also know I must find a way through. Grief may never leave me but I can choose how to walk beside it. So I'm trying to prepare not just for the winter weather but for the long nights of the heart.

I'll begin by surrounding myself with a small lights, candles, lamps, the soft glow of dawn through the window. They will be symbols of Fran's warmth, the love that still lives on inside me. I'll keep writing in the morning, as I always have, letting the world outside my back door guide my thoughts. Perhaps I'll start a winter project, something that gives purpose to the long days. Maybe I'll gather my reflections and create a small book, or collect Fran's favorite recipes, her little notes and the stories she loved to tell. In doing so she'll stay close, not just in memory but in creation.

I'll try to keep moving, short walks, quiet stretches, small acts of care, and when the ache becomes too much, I'll let it wash through me instead of fighting it. After all, pain is just love with nowhere to go. Each evening I'll light a single candle and whisper, "I'm still here and I'm trying." Maybe that's enough, to keep showing up day by day, carrying her with me as the seasons turn. Winter will come as it always does, but so will spring, and when the light returns I hope to meet it with a heart that's a little softer, a little steadier, and still full of love.

Inevitable things to come...

October Garden Harvest Super

This evening supper was a quiet celebration of the garden's generosity. a humble plate of homemade pasta dressed in the essence of summer's end. The pesto, born from the basil I gathered just yesterday, carried the fragrance of sun warmed leaves and gentle breezes.

I folded in a medley of mushrooms, portobello, cremini, and oyster. Their earthy aroma filling the kitchen with comfort. A pair of small red peppers and a few lingering cherry tomatoes, from today's picking, added a spark of color and sweetness, while a drizzle of olive oil and a light shaving of lemon zest, and a tad bit more parmesan cheese tied it all together.

As I sat down to eat I couldn't help but feel that this simple meal held something sacred. A quiet harmony between earth and hand, between the closing of one season and a tender beginning of another.

I'm certain Fran would have loved this as well. Think about it...pasta, basil, garlic, mushrooms, these definitely were at or near the top of her list of favorite things.

Something Sacred...

October 6, 2025

Morning Reflection, Monday October 6, 2025

It's about 7:30 AM and I'm sitting out on the deck with a cup of coffee in hand. The morning air is cool, not cold, but just enough to call for a light jacket. The sun now taking its steady southern track across the sky, reminds me once again of the changing season. Even when it reaches its southernmost point, well beyond the locust tree, I can always make out the image of Fran's face, within the trees canopy, even in winter when the branches are bare her image will remain.

It's strange and comforting, that was once the image of my mother after her passing has somehow become friends. A gentle voice pulled me from my thoughts Neal walking by with a friendly morning greeting, he asked how I was doing and wished me a great day. I told him about the pesto I made last weekend and how he and his brother could stop by after work to pick up a jar.

There's so much I need to do today and yet my motivation feels faint. The garden still needs tending, the plants pulled the soil turned and prepped for next season, and those thank you cards still sit on my coffee table waiting to be labeled and stamped.

The forecasters promise a decent day ahead and maybe that's reason enough to push myself a little, to get outside to start the garden clean up, to finish those cards and drop them at the post office. Perhaps by getting a few of these things done I can ease a bit of the weight I've been carrying.

For now I'll finish my coffee and sit quietly for a few moments listening to the morning, feeling the cool air and watching the sunlight move across the locust tree, where Frans presence always seems to linger.

Where the Sun Moves South

It's morning again,

October lights slipping softly

across the deck,

the air cool enough to ask

for a light jacket

and a slower breath.

The sun takes its southern path,

as it always does this time of year,

and when it reaches beyond the locust tree,

I see her.

Frans face appears,

in the shifting weave of branches,

the same way my mother's once did,

one presence giving way to another,

yet never gone.

Even in winter,

when the tree stands bare against the sky,

her image lingers there,

a quiet outline in memory's light.

Neal passes by with a wave and a smile,

his words gentle as the air itself.

I tell him about the pesto,

the jars waiting on the counter,

a small offering of green and grace.

There's work to be done,

so many things waiting,

on the edge of my resolve.

The garden needs to be cleared,

the soil turned for what will come next,

thank you cards resting on the table,

each one a whisper of gratitude and loss.

I tell myself,

finish the coffee first.

Then move.

Do one thing,

and perhaps the heart will follow.

For now I watch the sunlight bend

through the locust branches,

and I feel her there,

not gone,

just quieter,

woven into the morning

like breath,

like love,

like the light that keeps returning.

The Sun Above the Tree Line

By 7:50,

the sun has climbed beyond the trees,

spilling light across the deck,

a slow, golden warmth

that seeps through my jacket

and finds my skin,

a tender reminder,

of touch once known.

The table before me

still remembers the morning dew,

though now it dries

beneath this quiet fire,

its surface warm,

its breath rising faintly

like memory.

It's strange,

this feeling of being held

by something unseen,

as if sunlight itself

knows where I ache,

and lingers there,

offering solace

without a word.

I should be moving,

I know,

the garden waits,

the tasks call out

from inside the house,

but for now,

I'll remain here,

bathe in the hush of mourning,

eyes lifted skyward,

grateful for the warmth

that reaches me still.

When the World Awakes

The quiet has thinned,

that fragile veil of morning

dissolving into motion.

Leaf blowers hum,

lawn mowers grumble,

a truck rumbles past the corner,

and somewhere a hammer

strikes the day awake.

The stillness I bathed in,

just moments ago, has

become the breath

of a living world.

It seems this is how

the day announces itself,

not with a whisper,

but with the pulse of work,

the rhythm of purpose.

Perhaps it's my cue as well,

to rise and move,

to trade quiet for doing,

not running,

just walking,

one step

into the sound

of morning becoming day.

Toward Evening

By four o'clock,

the sun has drifted to the front of the house,

leaving the deck in a soft, forgiving shade.

The air rests at seventy two,

A warm breeze passing through,

as though the day itself exhales.

I've done enough to call it good,

two loads of laundry washed, folded, and put away,

a couple dozen thank you cards

labeled, stamped, and waiting for post.

The garden still calls faintly from below,

but I know the odds, slim, I tell myself,

and smile at the truth.

I wait for Neal to pass by,

his easy wave, his grin that belongs to the late afternoon.

There's pesto for him to take, a quart of

Italian penicillin (chicken soup), also

tossed in a few chocolate chip cookies,

the small kindnesses that preserve friendship.

Now the world is quiet again,

the sky brushed with faint clouds,

that seemed more imagined than real.

I sit in the shade,

content to let the breeze,

speak softly for me.

Later I'll return to the table,

to the stack of cards waiting for my hand,

and though the task still tugs at me,

I'll finish what I can.

Grateful for a day that gave me

more peace than sorrow,

and a light that lingered kindly,

all the way to the evening.

October 7, 2025

October 7th Morning, A Prelude of Light and Rain

At 7:24 am, the sky awakens,

a restless canvas of rose and ember,

where dawn burns softly against

the edge of rain.

Clouds gather, brooding yet tender.

their beauty edged with storm light.

From the stillness of the deck,

I watch the day unfold in contradiction,

menacing yet magnificent,

fragile yet fierce.

The air carries both promise and sorrow,

a quiet echo of what's been and what remains.

Before the rain begins it's long descent,

the heavens offer one last gift,

a sunrise that reminds me,

that even in the grayest hours,

light still insists on being seen.

And when the rain comes, let it wash away the sorrow, not the hope! Let it cleanse, not erase.

Light Before the Rain

The heavens breathed fire

and tenderness together.

A sunrise trembling between

beauty and storm.

The clouds move like thoughts of her,

heavy, yet radiant, alive with unspoken memory.

I sit in stillness, on the deck we once shared

and for a fleeting moment I feel her near.

In the hush of the morning air, in the hush

between the heartbeats.

The sky seems almost menacing,

yet even in its warning it whispers grace.

Rain will come, yes,

but only after this offering of light,

as if God himself paused the turning of the world,

to remind me:

Love still lives here.

In every rising sun,

in every gathering cloud,

she is not gone,

only folded gently,

into the dawn.

When Will It Be Enough

This morning, before I even looked out

the window I turned on the television.

Something I rarely do, and for good reason.

The noise, the shouting, the endless parade of egos,

all clambering for power, while the world quietly bleeds.

It's hard not to feel sickened by it,

how much suffering seems to root itself in greed.

How those who already have more than enough

still claw for more, while so many who have so little

ask only for peace, for fairness, for a chance.

I watch and wonder, when will it be enough.

When will those who hold the power

see that true strength lies

not in taking,

but in giving,

not in ruling,

but in healing.

Sometimes I think the world's greatest tragedy

is its collective forgetfulness.

We remember victories not lessons.

We charge toward the future, blind to the past,

that tried to teach us better.

I know my own time here is growing shorter.

I made mistakes, we all have,

but I've tried to learn from them.

That's the only way forward, that still feels human.

The weight of it all, the madness of it

presses down hard on a soul already grieving,

and yet beneath the despair, a small light flickers,

the belief that kindness, no matter how small,

still matters.

So I turn off the television,

take my coffee,

and look out toward the sunrise.

The world, for a brief and holy moment,

is quiet again.

And I remember that even in all its brokenness,

there is still beauty worth protecting,

still hope worth holding.

Between the Storm and the Stillness

May the noise of the world never drown the

still small voice within you.

May anger give way to compassion,

and despair to quiet courage.

When the weight of greed and cruelty feels

too heavy to bear, look toward the light

that still dares to rise in the morning sky,

in the kindness of a stranger,

in the memory of love that does not fade.

For even when the world seems to lose its way,

there are souls like yours, who keep watch,

who remember what matters.

And when the rain comes,

let it wash the sorrow, not the hope.

Let it cleanse, not erase.

For love once given never leaves the earth,

it simply changes form,

and continues shining quietly,

after the rain.

Rain and the Taste of Yesterday

It's a little past 5pm on a rainy Tuesday, the kind of steady soaking rain that hums softly against the windows, patient, unhurried, and somehow comforting.

Dinner to night was something simple, something I haven't had in ages. Hot dogs in split top buns, the kind of bun that feel warm and alive, as if it just came from the oven. One bite and I was back in time, back to those college days, back to the little restaurant with the billiard tables, back to when Fran and I were still at the beginning of everything.

I can still see her there, smiling at me with that look that said both love and disbelief, asking why I had to drown my hot dog in chili and cheese, when the normal way, with ketchup, mustard , relish, maybe onions, was good enough for most people. I told her of course, "but these are not just hot dogs, these are extra special hot dogs, for an extra special person," meaning me, she just shook her head pretending not to smile.

It's funny how a flavor can open a door you didn't realize was still there. For a few moments I could almost hear the chatter of that old place, the clicking of billiard balls, the quiet laughter between us, the music from the jukebox in the background, time folded gently in on itself, and for a moment, the rain outside sounded like it did all those years ago, soothing, steady, endless.

I spent the day crossing things off lists. Fifty-four thank you cards mailed, errands done, tasks that brought their own kind of quiet relief. But it was that simple meal that gave today its meaning, a small act of remembering, a small piece of the past offered back to the present.

Now, as dusk settles, and the rain continues its patient song, I think of how love truly never fades. It just changes places, sometimes resting in a flavor, sometimes in the sound of rain, sometimes in the quiet satisfaction of having done what needed to be done.

And tonight, as I sit here in the gray glow of evening,

I whisper a thank you, for warm buns, for gentle rain, for memory,

and for the love that keeps finding its way home.

An Evening Blessing From the Soft Voice of Memory

When the rain falls love,

don't think of it as sorrow,

but as the earth remembering

how to weep and heal.

When the scent of something familiar

fills the air, know that I am near,

not as shadow or echo but as warmth,

returning quietly to your heart.

The world will turn and ache and change,

but in small sacred moments, like this one,

we are still together.

Between the heartbeat of memory,

and the hush of the rain.

So rest easy tonight,

you have done enough,

given enough, loved enough.

Let the rain sing you to sleep,

and let tomorrow come gently.

The Wisdom of a Winter Guitar

Last evening, as I sat quietly, a small sound broke the stillness. The soft chime of a message on my phone. It was from my grandson, who lives not far from me.

He just graduated high school last year, and in what feels like the blink of an eye, he's grown not just older, but deeper.

He's been working hard, holding more than one job, taking Community College classes, learning how to play the guitar, and in between all that, finding the time to draw. He's quite good at it, better than I ever was at his age.

It makes me happy to see him discovering these outlets, not only because he's talented, but because I know how creativity can steady a person's soul, when the world feels heavy.

The words he sent me last night caught me off guard, he said:

"I'm not excited for winter either, I love being outside every day. I love the sunlight and always sit on my back porch after work. Once it gets cold I'll be stuck inside all day, but I feel like that's one of the best times to play guitar. It fits the esthetic, a warm room, a cup of coffee, and an acoustic guitar."

 It fits the esthetic...

When I read that, I just sat there speechless for a moment, it wasn't just what he said, but the feeling behind it. That quiet thoughtful awareness of life's small beautiful details. It was something you'd expect from a much older soul, someone who has learned how to sit comfortably, in the quiet corners of his own being.

At nineteen I never could have expressed myself that way, but there he is finding comfort in warmth, in sound, and stillness. Seeing the beauty of a winter day not as a prison of cold but as a space for music, for reflection, for peace.

It gives me hope, hope that the world still grows young men who look for the meaning instead of the noise, who understand that creation, be it through strings, pencils, or gentle words, can be a form of prayer. I can't help but think of him sitting there one day soon, coffee steaming beside him, fingers tracing quiet melodies through the still of the winter air. I can't help but smile, because in that image, I see the future, calm, kind, and deeply alive.

A Grandparents Blessing

May your hands always find music,

even when the world feels silent.

May the light through your window

remind you that each day is a new canvas,

and that beauty often hides in the smallest things,

the sound of rain. the hum of strings, the stillness of thought.

May your art be your refuge, and your kindness your compass.

When winter settles in, may you never fear the quiet,

for it is in the quiet that we hear the heart's true song.

Know that your Nanna and I are proud of you, and that love,

the steady patient kind, has been watching over you,

since long before you could name it.

I know your Nanna would be

so proud to read your words.

She would have smiled

that quiet knowing smile of hers.

The one that said more words

than words ever could.

She would have seen herself,

in your thoughtfulness, and your gentleness,

in your creativity, that burns bright and true.

Your Nanna's pride was never loud,

but it was constant, steady, and surely

the kind that built a bridge

between generations of hearts,

that listen closely to life's quiet music.

Tonight I can almost hear her saying,

"you see, the melody goes on."

October 8, 2025

It's a bit past 8 am this morning and I'm off to a slower start than usual. I didn't pull myself from bed until around 7:00 am and even then it took a fair bit of convincing, that's not typical for me.

I actually woke around 6 am and lay there staring at the clock, for what felt like a long time, rustling quietly between the urge to rise and the whisper that asked, what's the point. Those thoughts come more often now. The ache of absence, the deep question of purpose, the emptiness that fills the space where love once lived. It's a strange tug of war, between the head and the heart, wanting to move forward but feeling the weight of stillness holding me down.

Eventually I did drift back to sleep and when I finally got up, and looked out the back door, the world was muted. Gray skies, low clouds, no real sunrise to speak of. Still there was a faint glimmer on the horizon, sunlight trying to break through.

When I stepped outside the table and chairs were damp with dew, or maybe rain, I'm not sure which. I went back in for my squeegee and began drying them off, oddly enough every time I do that I find myself drying two chairs, though I know only one will be used. Can't bring myself to leave the other wet, it's as if some quiet part of me refuses to forget that there was once someone sitting across from me. I suppose it's my way of keeping her near, of saying you're still part of my morning.

As I finished the clouds began to shift, and a soft blue appeared overhead. The sun peeked through in streaks, tentative but warm, casting faint light across the damp table. I took it as a gentle sign that even in the grayest of mornings there's always the chance of clearing skies, maybe the day will improve. Maybe I will too, little by little.

You are still part of my mourning...

Suddenly the sun made a rather grand appearance. Its warmth washed over me in a way that felt almost miraculous, as though the morning itself decided to reach out and remind me that comfort still exists, even after the heaviest clouds.

The flowers beside me glistened with dew, every droplet catching the light and scattering in tiny spokes of color, red, yellow, orange, and green, all shimmered together. Nature's stained glass in motion, the sight was so simple, yet so beautiful, that it nearly stopped me in my thoughts.

Nature stained glass in motion...

That old summer plant, once strong and full, now shows its wear, its leaves droop a little, its stems less lively than before. It's another gentle reminder of change, that even what once flourished must eventually rest. Still there's grace in its fading, it has given all it had and now it leans toward rest with quiet dignity.

I find myself not wanting to face the season ahead, yet I know it's coming. All the same life moves forward they say, maybe that's the sun's quiet message to day, not to rush past the sadness, but to let light find its way through, if only for a moment.

The warmth of the sun is undulating this morning, rising and falling like waves across a restless sea. At one moment the light baths me in incredible comfort and the next the clouds sweep in to steal it away. The temperature shifts so suddenly, warm, then cool, almost cold, then back again to that gentle embrace of sunlight.

It's a strange sort of roller coaster, this dance between light and shadow. Still, I'll sit here a while longer, watching and feeling, knowing that when the clouds finally drift away the warmth will linger, a little longer perhaps. Even enough to steady me.

I'm not entirely sure what the rest of the day will bring. Dinner at my daughter's is planned for this evening, at least that's the idea for now. Plans have a way of changing, as life so often reminds me. But the thought of sharing a meal and conversation feels comforting, a small steady light, in an ever changing world.

Just this morning I received a kind message from Neil's brother Clay, thanking me for the food I'd sent with Neil yesterday. His words, simple as they were, reached me deeply. Strange how even small gestures, a meal shared, a message of gratitude, can fill the spaces where meaning sometimes seems to fade.

Perhaps that's what today is quietly trying to teach me, that warmth comes and goes, clouds pass and return, and yet there's always something, or someone, that brings back light, even if only for a moment.

Family Thread Woven In Kindness

October 9, 2025 -12:30 am

This evening I had dinner with my daughter and son in law. A simple gathering, yet one filled with warmth and laughter. Over the years my son in law has quietly become quite the personal chef, and tonight's meal was no exception, french dip roast beef sandwiches, crisp french fries, and a fresh garden salad that still carried a hint of summer's brightness.

Earlier in the afternoon I'd been in my own kitchen, preparing what I had hoped would be dessert for the evening. A chocolate cheesecake, with a caramel veil, soon to be crowned with dark chocolate ganache, and sprinkled with toasted almonds. It took far longer than I expected, but I've learned that some things, especially those made with care, can't be rushed. Tomorrow it will be finished and shared with family, friends, neighbors, who make life a little sweeter, just by being a part of it.

When I returned home later, I sat quietly for a while letting smooth jazz drift softly through the room. Somewhere between the general rhythm and the fading notes my phone lit up, a message from my son in law's parents. They read my latest blog post about our grandson, and wanted me to know how much they agreed with what I had written about him.

It warmed my heart to read their words. Well, we all admit to being somewhat partial. Our admiration for that young man is shared and genuine. He continues to remind us, in countless ways, of the goodness that still exists in the world through his thoughtfulness, his humor, and his unshakable kindness.

I thought too of how rare it is for families joined by marriage to share such harmony. My son in law's entire family has always been gracious, generous, and deeply kind to both Fran and me for as long as I can remember. When Fran passed, their compassionate support carried me through some of my darkest days, it's something I will never forget.

As I sit here tonight I feel a deep sense of gratitude. Family, both near and extended, who prove that love is not confined by bloodlines but strengthened by shared hearts. These quiet threads of kindness, woven over years, have created something lasting and beautiful, a tapestry of connection that continues to comfort and sustain me.

Love is the thread that binds our hearts, woven softly through time and tears,

it asks for nothing, yet it gives everything, and in its quiet strength we endure...

October 9, 2025 (continued)

Love Never Leaves, It Just Changes Form

Woke up, with my eyes wide open, around 5:00 AM. Not exactly ideal, considering I didn't go to bed until 1:30 AM. Even though I feel reasonably refreshed, my mind keeps reminding me that 3 1/2 hours of sleep is hardly sufficient.

Already finished my first cup of coffee and I'm working on my second. Sitting here wondering, what on earth I'm going to do this early in the morning. I suppose the first order of business will be to prepare the chocolate ganache for the dessert I started yesterday, that seems as good a way as any to begin the day.

Looking out the window, it's still quite dark. I don't expect to see any sign of daylight until around 6:30, maybe closer to seven. Another reminder that the days are growing shorter, the light fading earlier, with each passing week.

When Fran was here, I often woke early just to check on her, to make sure she was sleeping comfortably, that everything was alright. Now that there's no real reason to rise before dawn. One might think I'd sleep in, but that doesn't seem to be the case, at least not today.

During the last couple of years she was with me, there were so many mornings when I would have given almost anything for just a little more rest. For one morning without worry or fear. Now, I would give anything, to have those days back, to have her back here with me.

One of the hardest parts of losing her is the silence. It's a silence that's almost deafening at times, an emptiness that gnaws at me hour by hour, day by day.

Loneliness is a terrible thing to live with, not the kind that comes from being alone for a few hours or a few days. The kind that settles deep inside you, then makes the silence echo with memories of what once was. I hear her voice, her laughter, the faint sound of her moving through the house.

Still I go on, I do what needs doing, make the coffee, stir the ganache, watch the morning unfold, because that's what she would have wanted. She would tell me to keep busy, to find joy in small things, and not let the silence win.

And so, as the darkness begins to give way to the first light of dawn, I take another sip of coffee and remind myself the love we shared still fills this home. It may be invisible to everyone else, but I can feel it here, alive in the quiet, in the stillness, waiting for me to notice it once more.

Love never truly leaves us, it just changes form...

Love never truly leaves us, it just changes form and finds new ways to stay...

Before the Frost

It's 9:00 AM and the cheesecake is finished, golden, smooth, and beautiful. A small triumph to start the day. I brought my coffee out to the deck, to soak in what sunshine I can, knowing full well that the week ahead promises little of it. The forecast calls for rain, clouds, and a sharp drop in temperature. Even whispers of frost warnings. I'm not ready for that just yet.

It looks like I'll need to get down to the garden today. It's time to harvest what's left, clear away the summer's growth, and prepare the beds for next spring. There will be plenty for the compost bins, even though the trees haven't started to turn, everything remains stubbornly green, even as October edges on.

I have a feeling this won't be a colorful fall. If the frost comes early, the leaves will likely drop before they ever get a chance to ignite in their usual splendor. That would be a shame, because even though I've never welcomed winter, I've always found solace in the beauty of fall.

On my way through the house this morning the laundry basket offered a subtle reminder that the chores won't do themselves, so today between the garden and the laundry, I'll simply take things one step at a time. There's no sense in rushing or worrying over the little things.

I promised myself instead to slow down, to savor the warmth of the sun while it lasts, the aroma of the coffee, the quiet hum of a morning well begun, and to take joy in the special moments, when they arise.

October 10, 2025

1:15 am

A Legacy of Love

It's a little after 1:00 AM, on Friday morning, October 10th. I spent most of the afternoon in the garden, several hours of honest work. It felt good to accomplish something even though there's still plenty left to do.

As I worked, my thoughts kept circling back to the rhythm of life itself. The cycle that begins each spring with planting, continues through the tending and finally ends in the harvesting and the clearing. This year was different, I didn't tend to the garden as faithfully as in past years, and for good reason. When the world came crashing down the garden was left to fend for itself, much like I've been trying to do.

While working I realized how much of my grief has been inward, focused on my own loss, my own emptiness, but as I thought more deeply I began to consider, more intently, how my children must be feeling. I know they've been trying to be strong for me, and I love them for that. However, the pain they're carrying must be just as heavy, if not more so.

Fran was about, above all else, being a mother. She lived for our children, almost exclusively. She took them everywhere, tended to their needs, cared for them in both good times and bad. She was their rock. We didn't always agree on parenting, she was softer than I was. I was the one who made and enforced the rules while she was the warmth, that made those rules bearable. Together, somehow we balanced each other.

After coming in from the garden, I had a small bite to eat, sat in my chair and must have drifted off for four or five hours. Now, as I sit here in the early morning darkness, I doubt I'll sleep much more tonight. My mind keeps turning back to Fran, to her brother, her sister, her extended family and our children.

I feel guilty realizing how absorbed I've been in my own sorrow, while there's may be just as deep and just as consuming. Maybe, in the days ahead, I can find a way to reach out, to share not only my grief but my heart, and in so doing help all of us heal, even if only a little.

A Legacy of Love

Fran wasn't just a friend, a companion, or a mother, she was devoted in every sense of the word. Her children were her life's work and her grandchildren were her greatest joy. Whenever they were near, whether visiting or just stopping by, she was in pure heaven. Her face would light up, her laughter would fill the room, and everything else in the world seemed to fade into the background.

She would do anything for them, absolutely anything. She often went without things she wanted or needed so she could give to them instead. Her love was never about grand gestures, it was in the small everyday acts of care, that only those closest to her could truly see.

Though our grandchildren are still young, the oldest just turning 21 last November, I hope they will always hold vivid memories of the time they shared with her. I'm certain they will, she left that kind of impression, deep, lasting and full of light.

Fran was one of the most kind, considerate, compassionate, and loving souls I've ever known. If her grandchildren carry even a fraction of her spirit with them, and if they pass those qualities on to their own children one day, then her legacy will never fade. It will continue to grow quietly, beautifully, in every act of love they give.

Reflections on Love, Family, and the Ties That Bind

It's a little past 11, on this quiet Friday morning. Sleep was fleeting again last night, bed at 2:30 AM, up before sunrise at 5:30 AM, but somehow the gentle rhythm of the day and the thought of family have carried me forward.

My daughter called last evening to ask if I might make pasta for dinner tonight. I agreed, of course. Cooking for my family has always been more than just preparing a meal, it's a way of keeping something sacred alive, a tradition, a memory, a connection. As I worked the pasta dough this morning my mind wandered back through the years, through kitchens, generations, to the people who shaped who I am.

Food has always been a language of love in my life. I remember standing at the side of my mother and grandmother, watching intently as they prepared meals. They didn't just cook, they shared. Every stir, every pinch of salt, carrying meaning. I was lucky that they let me join them, that they welcomed my curiosity, from them I learned that food was more than sustenance, it was how family stayed close, even through silence or sorrow.

I thought too about my own parents, about how their love was sometimes quiet, sometimes difficult, but always enduring. When I was a boy, they argued, (A Lot) in a peculiar way. No shouting, no storms of words, just silence. My sister and I became the messengers at the dinner table, carrying small requests back and forth like ambassadors of peace, "ask your father to pass the potatoes, tell your mother we need more gravy."

Yet beneath that quiet stubbornness there was something unbreakable between them. I realized that years later, when they were both well into their 90s and could no longer stay in their home. Fran and I helped them move into an assisted living facility, near our home. They were frail, my mother recovering from a broken hip, my father struggling with severe back pain. When I visited them that first day, I noticed one bed neatly made and the other unmade. I asked jokingly, all right who didn't make their bed? They looked at me as though I'd missed something obvious, and I had. Despite their age and ailments they had both slept together, in that single twin bed. After seventy plus years, side by side, the thought of sleeping apart simply didn't exist. Needless to say I moved the queen bed from their home to the assisted living facility, the next day.

That image has stayed with me. Two people old and aching, still choosing closeness over comfort. That to me is love, in its purest form, the same kind of love that Fran and I shared for fifty three plus beautiful years. It doesn't fade with age or distance, it deepens, it settles in your bones, and it becomes the rhythm of your life.

Now as I make pasta for my daughter and her family I feel that same love continuing, through generations, through recipes, through simple acts that keep the spirit of family alive. It's all connected, the food, the memories, the love that outlives us.

And maybe that's what today is about, not just making dinner but honoring everything and everyone that made these moments possible.

An Evening of Food, Family, and Quiet Gratitude

It's about 8:00 this Friday evening and the house is quiet again, after a lovely dinner shared with my daughter, her husband, and his grandmother.

As I mentioned earlier in the day, I pulled out the old Kitchenaid mixer and made about three pounds of homemade pasta. I cooked about two pounds of it for dinner, plenty for everyone at the table, and enough left over for those who couldn't make it tonight.

The dinner itself was wonderful but the conversation was even better. It felt good not to eat alone, to hear laughter, and stories floating through the kitchen again. My son in law's grandmother, who must be in her nineties is such a remarkable woman, graceful, lively, and sharper than many people decades younger. Listening to her reminds me how precious wisdom and humor are, when they're worn comfortably with age.

After dinner I packed up portions for my son-in-law's parents and for my grandson, who had to work tonight. Homemade pasta, chicken parmesan topped with fire roasted tomatoes, and a slice of the chocolate cheesecake with salted caramel and chocolate espresso ganache. That cheesecake, I must admit, was almost dangerous. So rich, it probably should come with a health warning. A small slice was more than enough, but it was impossible to resist.

Now the house is still again. The dishes are washed, the lights are dimmed, and the echoes of conversation have settled into a pleasant quiet. I'm tired, but content. The kind of tired that comes from both work, and fulfillment.

Soon I'll sit down, though I know once I do it won't be long before sleep finds me. But before that, I wanted to capture this simple good evening, a night filled with family, food, and the comfort of knowing that love, in all its forms, still fills this home.

October 11, 2025

It's a little after 8:00 in the morning, and as I gaze toward the horizon I can't help but notice how everything around me remains so green, lush, almost tropical. It's strange for this time of year. Mid October is usually when autumn begins her graceful transformation, brushing the trees with shades of crimson, amber, and gold. This year there are few signs of change, only a stubborn lingering green that refuses to give way. (Not that I have a particular problem with lingering green.)

Normally, by now, we are treated to that last magnificent display, the farewell performance before the curtain of winter descends. It's a sight that never fails to stir something deep within me, a reminder that beauty often comes just before things fade away. Some years it's breathtaking, others quiet and subdued, but always, it's a gift.

I can't help but hope we will experience that again this year, but the way things are going I'm not so sure. If the colors do come, they may be muted, hesitant, perhaps gone before we truly notice. If so, it will be quite a loss, one more small wonder, dearly missed.

For now, the morning air is still cool, the day young and the world waiting. What the rest of it will bring, I can't say. There's always something, at least until the day our ticket gets punched.

Saturday, October 11, Evening Reflections

It's almost 7:00 on this cool Saturday evening and the night sky is quickly approaching. I thought about stepping outside for a cup of coffee, but the air was far too chilly for comfort. Truth be told, I've been inside all day, working on what remains of the thank you cards.

When my daughter was here last night she gave me a list of addresses for people she felt should receive a card, names I might have unintentionally missed. What I thought would take about an hour has stretched into several, and even now I'm still not finished. I planned to go out for a bit this afternoon, to pick up a few things I needed, but the motivation never really came. Today was mostly cloudy, with brief moments of sunshine, but not quite warm or welcoming enough to draw me outdoors. As a consequence, I thought a lot about the way things were, before Fran passed, and how I couldn't possibly move forward. I miss her sooooo much.

I'm not sure what the rest of the evening will bring. Perhaps I'll just relax, turn on the television and see if anything captures my interest. All things considered, I doubt I will be fortunate enough to find anything of interest.

Earlier today I received a text message from one of Fran's cousins, who lives on Long Island. He had written to let me know he received his card and had also been reading my blog. When I first started the blog, the platform suggested starting a small group on grief and grieving. Iit wasn't something I had planned to do, but I figured there was no harm in trying. At the moment there are only three members, myself among them, but today he told me he had joined.

I think that's a good thing because his older sister passed away this past January. A beautiful soul, kind and giving, a devoted mother of four and grandmother to several more. Whenever she visited Fran and me, I used to hang a small plaque above the bed she slept in. There was a photo of her with the words "Princess Josie Slept Here," she always got a kick out of that and it became a little tradition between us. God bless her soul, she truly was a sweetheart.

And so here I sit, for a few minutes more, before returning to finish printing the remaining cards and perhaps the address labels too. With any luck I'll have them sealed and ready to mail by Monday. We'll see how that goes.

October 12, 2025

Sunday Morning, October 12

It’s early, about 5:30 a.m. when my eyes open to the stillness. I lie there for a while, caught between the warmth of the blankets and the uncertainty of what the day might bring. Eventually, I rise, moving through the familiar motions of morning, even though there’s no clear purpose waiting for me.

Yesterday, my daughter asked if I wanted to go to a fall festival in Ligonier, PA. I told her probably not. I’ve never been one for crowds. Small groups I can handle, but large gatherings, people bustling and bumping and calling out over one another, that’s just not my cup of tea.

It’s still dark outside. No sign yet of the sunrise. I’ll wait patiently, hopefully for it to come. My first cup of coffee is already gone, I’m working on my second.

Fran loved my coffee. Every morning, without fail, she would tell me how wonderful it was. It became our quiet ritual, mine to prepare it, hers to enjoy it. Every night before bed, I’d fill the coffee maker with whole beans, water, and just a dash of salt in the filter basket.

Yes, salt. My little secret. People often ask why, and I tell them that in homes with hard water, water softeners use salt to make it gentler. The same principle applies to coffee, a touch of salt softens the bitterness, smooths the edge, and turns an ordinary cup into something mellow, round, satisfying.

I always made sure the coffee was ready the night before, just in case Fran woke before I did. Then, all she had to do was press the start button. But as time went on, that simple act became too difficult for her. Watching her lose the strength even for that small gesture was a heartbreak that words barely touch.

She still loved her coffee, though, loved it with a kind of devotion. She’d drink the first cup almost in one breath and ask for another. Some mornings, depending on how she felt, we’d go through eight or ten cups by noon, two souls and one pot of coffee, greeting the day together.

My heart aches for those mornings, for the sound of her voice, the quiet of her presence beside me, the rising sun we used to watch in shared silence. Now it’s just me, my cup, and the memories that fill it.

Sunday Morning, October 12 — Before Sunrise

It’s now about 6:45 a.m., and still there isn’t even a hint of sunrise on the horizon. The sky remains a soft, unbroken darkness, patient, unhurried. I sit here, listening to the stillness, my second cup of coffee cooling beside me, and decide it’s time to begin preparing the rustic Italian bread recipe that found its way to me yesterday.

For years now, I’ve been searching for a bread that resembles the one from a small Italian market near my home, crusty on the outside, soft and airy within, the kind of bread that feels alive when you tear it open. I’ve tried many recipes, each one good in its own way, yet none quite the same. Still, I keep searching. There’s comfort in the effort, in the kneading, the waiting, the rising — as if somewhere in that rhythm lies a kind of peace I’ve been looking for since Fran passed.

She would’ve loved mornings like this. The scent of coffee in the air, the sound of a wooden spoon against a mixing bowl, the anticipation of something homemade warming the kitchen. She always said there was magic in the simplest things, a pot of coffee, a loaf of bread, a quiet morning shared.

Now it’s just me, yet I can still feel her presence in these small acts. Every motion measuring flour, sprinkling yeast, stirring with care, feels like a continuation of something we began long ago. As I move through the steps, I think about how love often lingers in the ordinary in routines, in rituals, in the soft echo of someone’s favorite scent or sound.

Perhaps this bread will be the one I’ve been searching for, and if not, that’s all right too. The act of trying, of creating, of remembering her through the familiar, that’s where the meaning lies. Each loaf brings me closer, in some small way, to the warmth we once shared.

So I’ll wait for the dough to rise, and maybe by then, the first light of morning will begin to show, not just outside my window, but somewhere deep within, too.

Before Sunrise — Continued

It’s now 7:15 a.m., and still no sign of the sun. I stepped outside for a moment, hoping for even a faint glow on the horizon, but the sky is thick with heavy clouds, a gray stillness pressing down from above, rolling in from the west. It seems there won’t be anything spectacular in the way of a sunrise this morning.

And yet, that’s all right.

a gray stillness pressing down from above...

The bread awaits me, the mixing, the kneading, the slow rise, and that gives me something to look forward to. I can already picture it, the golden crust just out of the oven, the steam curling upward in delicate ribbons, the scent filling the kitchen the way sunlight fills a room.

I’ll have to resist the urge to cut into it too soon, to let it cool and settle before that first slice. Patience, a lesson I keep learning, in baking and in life. Some things, like bread and healing, can’t be rushed. They need time, warmth, and a quiet faith that what’s forming unseen will, in time, be whole.

So I’ll wait — for the bread to rise, for the clouds to part, for the next spectacular sunrise to find me.

Before Sunrise — Continued (7:50 a.m.)

It’s now 7:50 a.m. After a brief, gentle shower, the sky has begun to clear, and the sun is finally breaking through the clouds. The light is soft and pale, not the spectacular burst I sometimes hope for, but a quiet, golden glow that carries its own kind of peace.

Once I finish mixing the bread dough and set it aside for its first rise, I think I’ll head outside for a while — coffee in hand, of course. The rain has left everything damp, so I’ll need to wipe down the tables and chairs first, unless I want to start my morning with an unexpected bath.

From where I stand, I can see the clouds drifting eastward, the sunlight slowly pushing its way through. It’s a calm, unhurried awakening. There’s no grandeur in it, no sweeping colors across the horizon — just a steady return of light, the way life always finds its way back through the gray.

As I watch the sky shift from dull to soft yellow, I find myself smiling at the uncertainty of it all. I don’t know what kind of day this will turn out to be, the clouds could roll back in just as easily as they could fade away. But that’s all right, I’m not a meteorologist, and they rarely get it right anyway.

For now, this moment, the scent of rain, the promise of warm bread, the quiet joy of sunlight returning, is enough.

Before Sunrise — Continued (8:07 a.m.)

It’s now 8:07 a.m. I’ve just added olive oil, salt, yeast, and honey to the flour and water mixture, that rested for about thirty minutes. The dough is coming together slowly, alive beneath my hands. Now begins the patient work, a two-hour rise with folds every twenty or thirty minutes, each one turning and shaping it, just as time turns and shapes us.

I glance outside, and the sky has transformed. The sun is finally making its presence known, breaking through the clouds in radiant beams that reach down like gentle hands. It’s a quiet kind of glory, not loud or dramatic, but steady, insistent, beautiful. The deck still glistens from the earlier rain, and the air feels washed clean, renewed.

warmth and brightness are never truly gone, only waiting for their moment to return.

There’s something almost spiritual about it, the way light insists on finding a way through even the thickest clouds. It feels like a message, subtle yet sure, that warmth and brightness are never truly gone, only waiting for their moment to return.

So I’ll tend to the dough, fold it as it grows, and let the morning unfold as it wishes. The bread will rise, the clouds will drift, and the day, like the light. will find its way forward.

The bread will rise, the clouds will drift, and the day, like the light. will find its way forward.

Journal Reflection, “The Bread That Brought Her Home”

Today’s bread turned out perfectly, crusty on the outside, soft and tender within, exactly like the loaf from that small Italian market Fran and I used to love. I’ve searched for years for a recipe that could bring back that same flavor, and at last, this one did.

The moment I cut into it, the aroma filled the house and carried me back to those afternoons when Fran and I would sit together with a loaf, still warm from the bakery. We’d make a simple meal out of it, a little balsamic, a touch of olive oil, maybe some pesto or sun-dried tomatoes, and always, a cup of strong coffee.

The house felt alive again, for a while today. I could almost hear her laughter, see her hand reaching for another slice. It’s amazing how something as simple as bread can hold the memory of love, its scent, its warmth, its comfort. I suppose that’s what I’ll carry forward, the reminder that love, once shared, lingers in all the little things that remain.

I could almost hear her laughter, see her hand reaching for another slice.

Before Sunrise, “Bread and Memory”

The crust broke beneath my hands,

steam rising like a whisper from another time.

The house filled with a fragrance, I thought was gone,

that quiet, golden scent of home, and love, and morning light.

For a moment, she was here again,

her smile folded into the warmth of the loaf,

her laughter mingling with the hiss of coffee

poured fresh.

We once made a meal of such simplicity,

bread, olive oil, and the comfort of each other’s presence.

Today, I tasted it again,

not just the bread, but the years,

the devotion that still lingers

in the corners of the kitchen,

in the echo of her name.

And as I stood there,

knife in hand, heart open,

I realized love never really leaves,

it just rises again,

like bread in the warmth of remembering.

October 13, 2025

Morning Reflection – Monday, October 13

The house is quiet, and the day is just beginning to stir. It’s a few minutes past seven, the sky partly brushed with scattered clouds, and the air carries that unmistakable coolness of mid-October, enough to call for a light jacket. I’ve been up since 5:30, still nursing my first cup of coffee, letting the warmth travel through me as I ease into the morning.

Yesterday was a good day. I accomplished much, and in doing so, touched pieces of the past that mean the world to me. The bread I made filled the house with a scent that brought back such tender memories of Fran and me, our trips to the little Italian market, the laughter, the simple joy of sharing a loaf still warm from the oven. For a moment, I could almost feel her there beside me again.

The thank you cards are all finished, written, addressed, and sealed with care. Soon they’ll go out to those who reached out with kindness and love. It feels like another small piece of the healing process, a quiet step forward.

I might make my way to the garden later if the weather and my energy allow. The earth waits patiently, last season’s plants ready to be cleared away, the soil waiting to breathe again before the long rest of winter. But for now, I’ll linger in the calm of this morning, grateful for the stillness, for memory, and for the soft light that fills this space I call home.

Kitchen Seasoned with Love

Monday, October 13 – Late Morning

The kitchen feels alive today, the quiet hum of the house, the scent of yeast rising from the dough, and a touch of basil in the air. On the counter, the bowl of ripe tomatoes sits beside a glass vase filled with basil stems that have quietly begun to root. It’s such a simple thing, really, water, sunlight, and time, yet it feels like a small miracle to witness new life beginning again.

The sign on the wall reads, “This kitchen is seasoned with love.”  Those words have never felt truer. Every corner, every scent, every stirring of dough carries a memory, of laughter, of shared meals, of Fran’s gentle presence that still lingers like warmth after the oven’s been turned off.

Yesterday’s bread brought back the past so vividly that I could almost see her standing beside me again, smiling at the crust, testing the crumb, and saying softly, “This one’s perfect.” I wish I’d discovered this recipe sooner, when we could have broken that loaf together, but maybe, in some quiet way, we still are.

Now, as the dough rests for its second rise, the house fills once again with hope and comfort. The basil roots stretch in the water, and I think of how life keeps finding its way forward, even in stillness, even after loss. This kitchen, our kitchen, remains what it has always been, a place of love, memory, and renewal.

This kitchen, is seasoned with love...

Bread, Memory, and the Quiet House

The day drifts softly toward evening, and I can’t say I’ve done much at all. Still, the scent of fresh bread fills the rooms, a doubled recipe, a small triumph against the silence. It rose beautifully again, golden and full, though yesterday’s loaf vanished too quickly, and I was the only one to blame. Tasty comfort, perhaps, but comfort can weigh heavy too.

As the dough rested,I looked around this house, the one that now keeps company only with memory. This will be my world for a while, save for brief journeys to the store, the doctor, or some errand that reminds me life still goes on.

My eyes stopped on the stair lifts. We installed them two years ago, when Fran still fought to climb the steps to the place she once called home. They sit there still, silent monuments to her struggle and strength. In those final months,even the short ride up or down required both our hands, and when we did leave the house, it was always a journey of oxygen tanks and worry.

Now I wonder, should I take them out? Should I clear the space, or let them stay a while longer, as if they’re still waiting for her? Maybe one day I’ll need them too. Maybe that’s reason enough to keep them.

This house bears her fingerprints everywhere, adapting itself to love and illness,

to devotion and decline. Now those changes echo back at me, useful no longer, yet impossible to erase.

Fran never liked to be seen when her illness took hold. She was never vain, but she cared about grace, and she always had it, even in her simplest clothes. I used to buy her things, more than she ever would have chosen herself. My daughter convinced me to sign her up for a stylist who sent boxes of clothing and accessories. Many of those clothes still hang there, tags untouched, as if waiting for a day that never came.

One of these days, sooner, perhaps, I’ll have to face that closet. But not today. Today, it’s enough just to stand here, to breathe the quiet, and to remember.

Outside, the sky has worn gray since morning. A brief shower whispered by ,hardly enough to wet the earth. The garden waits, the air heavy with stillness. Perhaps I’ll take a drive later, just a short ride, somewhere with open space and air that moves. Before I go, I’ll slice the loaf in half, wrap it warm, and bring part to my daughter. Fran would like that, the sharing, the small gesture of giving what’s good.

And maybe tomorrow, if the weather allows, I’ll walk out to the garden again. Something there still calls my name, quiet, patient, alive.

October 14, 2925

Letter to Fran – October 14

It’s a gray, quiet morning, the kind that used to make us reach for our sweaters and talk about soup or fresh bread for lunch. The air feels cool, almost heavy, but the smell of banana bread and muffins baking in the oven softens it somehow, fills the house with something close to comfort. You would’ve loved that. I remember you once saying the smell of baking felt like love had a scent.

While I wait for the sun to show itself, I find my mind wandering back to the days in the Poconos, those crisp winters when the kids were young, and we could ski for next to nothing. I can still see you there at the bottom of the slope, waving, your cheeks flushed from the cold, your laughter rising above the snow. Those were good days Fran, full, rich, alive. When we moved back western Pennsylvania, we had no idea how much we’d miss that. I guess that’s the way of life, you only realize what you had once it becomes a memory.

Now, I dread the winter. Not because of the cold, but because of the silence. You were my warmth through every season. Without you, the house feels bigger, the days longer, and the nights somehow quieter. I’ve come to understand what my mother meant when she said loneliness has a sound of its own. It’s not the absence of noise, it’s the echo of what’s missing.

I think about the beach a lot, how your eyes would light up the moment your feet touched the sand, how the ocean seemed to recognize you. You belonged there, Fran. The waves, the wind, the endless horizon, they all matched the spirit you carried inside. I can’t bring myself to go back there without you. It wouldn’t be the same. Nothing ever will be, really.

People used to tell me time would ease the pain, but they never said it would also stretch the loneliness. The calls have slowed, the visits too. I don’t blame anyone. Life moves on, it has to. But I sometimes wonder where I fit in it now. My purpose feels uncertain. The days blend together, and I find myself asking what comes next.

Still, I try to hold on to the small things that keep you close, the smell of bread baking, the sound of the wind through the open patio door, the memories that drift in like sunlight through a cloud. Maybe that’s what love becomes after loss, not gone, just changed. A quiet presence that lives in the spaces you once filled.

I miss you, Fran. Every day, in every way, and though the house is quiet, my heart still speaks your name.

Tony

Evening Reflection – October 14

It’s nearing 6:40 in the evening, and the sun is slowly dipping toward the horizon. The sky, once dull and gray this morning, has softened into a breathtaking wash of amber and orange, that fleeting glow that seems to hold the warmth of the entire day in its light. There are few clouds overhead now, but just enough at the horizon to catch the color and scatter it into the treetops.

When I stepped outside this morning, the trees were still mostly green, stubbornly holding on to summer. Now, as I sit again with a fresh cup of coffee, I see more color than I did just hours ago, splashes of yellow and orange beginning to weave through the canopy to the north. It’s subtle, but unmistakable.

The change has begun. It’s beautiful, of course, but beauty in autumn always feels bittersweet to me now. The colors are a promise of what’s coming, the stillness, the chill, and the long, quiet stretch of winter. I used to greet the cold with excitement, but now it feels more like endurance.

I spent much of the day in the garden, saying goodbye to another season’s work. I pulled up the tired plants, turned the soil, tended the compost pile, and gathered what was left to harvest. By the time I was done, I had close to five pounds of tomatoes, some green, some blushing half-red, and a few pounds of peppers, both banana and bell. I even found one last tiny cucumber, which ended up in my salad tonight.

It felt good, that work, honest, grounding. The kind of task that asks nothing but patience and presence. While I was cleaning up, I couldn’t help thinking about how Fran and I used to marvel at how much food the garden would give us, right up to the end. She’d always find ways to use every bit of it. I think she would’ve smiled at the sight of today’s haul.

Not wanting anything to go to waste, I found a few recipes for tomorrow, fried green tomatoes, green tomato relish, and chutney. Of those, only the fried ones are familiar. I remember making them once before, I liked them more than Fran did, but I can still hear her laughing about how they “tasted like summer that wasn’t ready to leave yet.”

The air is cooling now, but not cold, the kind of evening where the warmth from a coffee mug feels just right in the hands. I’ll sit here a while longer, watch the sun finish its descent, and listen as the day folds into night. There’s comfort in that, in noticing, in remembering, in letting each small moment be what it is. The garden is resting now.

Soon, the world will too.

October 15, 2025

There's some things, with regard to someone, that has been gnawing at me for several years now. The day has finally come that I make, at least, an attempt at getting this off my chest. The person and/or persons I'm referencing, know who they are:

Maybe peace doesn’t come all at once.

Maybe it arrives quietly, like a soft rain,

after long drought, each drop washing

a little anger away, leaving room for light

to settle in the cracks.

I’ll carry the truth of what happened,

but I won’t let it define me.

I’ll honor Fran’s compassion,

by choosing to heal, one breath,

one memory, one day at a time.

Journal Reflection — October 15, Afternoon

For the Love That Carried Us

It’s almost 2 PM, and the sun has been out for a couple of hours now. I’ve made my way to the deck with a fresh cup of coffee, happy to soak up this unexpected warmth. What started out as a gray, miserable morning has turned into something quite lovely. The air is cool, but the sun feels like it’s wrapping me in a soft heat, almost like sitting inside a toaster. I’ve already shed the fleece jacket I wore out, and it feels good just to let the light settle on me.

Looking north, the big oak trees on my neighbor’s property have changed again, subtle shifts in color since yesterday. What was mostly green now shows small threads of yellow, amber, and orange, hints of the autumn that’s coming, ready or not.

My daughter called around noon, and we talked for nearly forty-five minutes. She’s got plenty on her plate, but still finds time to check in a few times each day. She’s so much like her mother, kind hearted, thoughtful, always giving. Sometimes she mothers me now, and though I tease her about it, I know it comes from love. I just hope she understands when I have to cut a call short, I’d never want her to think I take her for granted.

My friend Bob phoned earlier and said he might stop by this afternoon. I told him I’d send him home with some of the Italian bread I baked yesterday, a banana bread muffin, and a couple slices of that chocolate cheesecake. It’s so rich, truly decadent, and getting it out of the house is probably the best thing for me. Still, I admit I’ve had a few bites more than I should have.

From where I sit, I can see the garden, still holding on even this late in the season. Tomatoes, basil, eggplant, and peppers continue to appear, stubbornly ignoring the coming frost. I know I should pull the remaining plants, but I think I’ll leave them be for now. Company will be here soon, and truthfully, I’d rather just stay in this sunlight a little longer.

Last night, Fran’s cousin texted again. He’s struggling with caregiving, just as I once did, probably even more so now. I try to offer words of encouragement, though I often struggle to find them for myself. Being a caregiver changes you, it’s a kind of education that never ends, even after the work itself is over.

Neal texted too, said he might stop by later this evening. I’ll save him some bread and a slice of cheesecake. It’ll be good to talk, to share a bit of comfort, even if it’s just over dessert and conversation.

Afternoon Reflection

The day began heavy, but somehow it softened. A little sunlight, a phone call, a few kind words —they remind me that warmth still finds its way through the cracks.

I’ve learned that healing isn’t one great leap forward, it’s found in quiet afternoons like this, coffee in hand, sun on my face, and the memory of love that still fills the air around me.

A Day of Connection

By the time the clock neared 9:30 tonight, the house had finally grown still. It had been a full day, not in the way of noise or bustle, but in the quiet, meaningful rhythm of small things that somehow fill the heart.

It began early, with four pounds of green tomatoes laid out on the counter beside a handful of sweet peppers and onions. I chopped and stirred them together in a large pot, added sugar, vinegar, and spices, and let them simmer until the house filled with that sharp-sweet fragrance only a good relish can make. When the mixture finally cooked down, the taste was just right, tangy, gentle, and full of the garden’s last gifts.

and the harvest continues...

That relish ended up on a couple of hot dogs for dinner, nothing fancy, but satisfying all the same. Neal stopped by just about then, as if by instinct. We shared the meal together, along with slices of toasted rustic Italian bread and a bit of chocolate cheesecake for dessert. He said, as he always does, how much he enjoyed it. Before he left, I packed a small bundle for him to take home, enough for him and his brother, Clay, to share later on.

Bob had been over earlier in the afternoon. We sat and talked for more than an hour, about the usual things, our days, our projects, a bit about how time seems to slip by faster now. It was an easy visit, the kind that feels natural and unhurried. Before he left, I filled a small bag for him too, banana bread and a few slices of cheesecake. It’s a simple thing, sending someone home with food, but there’s comfort in it, a quiet way of saying, I’m glad you came.

Later, the phone rang, and on the other end were three of Fran’s cousins, two calling from Florida, and one from Long Island, who was visiting his brother and sister in Florida. Hearing their voices brought a flood of memories. I first met her family in the early 1970s, before we were even married. They opened their homes to us as though we were their own, and that warmth never faded.

Fran’s family has always understood something deep and enduring, that family is not just an idea, but a living bond. Distance never lessened their affection, time never wore it down. I have to admit, I didn’t grow up that way, family ties in my own life were thinner, quieter. Through Fran, I learned what it meant to belong, and I can only hope our children carry that same understanding forward.

My brother-in-law visited twice today, first for a short chat, then later with a container of homemade halushki. He arrived while I was still on the phone with Fran’s and his cousins, and before long, he was part of the conversation too. It was, in its own way, a little family reunion, not in one room, but in one spirit.

Now, as I sit in the soft light of evening, I realize how full the day truly was. Not because of all I did, but because of who it allowed me to share it with. Each visit, each call, each small kindness stitched the day together into something whole.

Tomorrow brings a doctor’s appointment — a small matter that still weighs a bit on my mind. My dermatologist found a patch of tissue that needs to be removed, and though it’s nothing I look forward to, it’s something that must be done. For tonight, though, I’ll let the thought rest.

I’ll end this day grateful — for friends who drop by, for family who still call from afar, and for the lingering sense that love, once planted, continues to grow in every season of life.

The Blessing of an Ordinary Day

(for Fran)

Morning light spilled across the kitchen counter,

and there they were, four pounds of green tomatoes,

bright as memory, waiting to be turned into something sweet.

I chopped, stirred, seasoned, and let the scent of vinegar

and sugar rise through the house,

a perfume of summer held over,

a small offering to the day.

By evening, the relish was ready,

and I found comfort in its warmth,

a simple meal shared with Neal,

hot dogs dressed in the taste of the garden,

rustic bread toasted to a golden edge,

a slice of chocolate cheesecake to close the meal.

He smiled, as you would have,

content in that quiet, familiar joy of food

made with care and given with love.

Bob had come by earlier,and we talked

the way old friends do, wandering through stories,

laughter, and the welcome sound of another voice in the room.

Before he left, I filled a small bag, bread, cheesecake,

and a piece of the afternoon.

It’s a habit I can’t let go of, this sharing,

perhaps because it’s what you taught me,

that food is another way to say, I remember you.

Later, the phone carried voices from far away,

your cousins, dear and kind as ever.

How long has it been since that first visit in August of 1971?

They welcomed us then like their own, and still they do,

their love unchanged, their hearts open.

They told me they think of me often,

that I’m never alone.

In their words, I felt your hand,

soft and certain,resting on mine.

Your brother stopped in too,

bringing halushki, warm from his kitchen.

He joined the call with your cousins,

and for a moment, it was as if the distance folded away,

a small reunion stitched together by voices and memory,

held fast by the thread of your name.

Now, the night has grown quiet.

I sit in its stillness and think of all that today offered,

the rhythm of work, the laughter of friends,

the voices of family carried on the line.

How full life can be, even in its gentlest hours.

Tomorrow brings its own test, a visit to the surgeon,

a matter of concern, but one I’ll face with the calm you left me.

For I know that courage, like love,

can be learned from those who live it well.

So I close this day with gratitude,

for hands that still have purpose,

for voices that still reach out,

and for the blessing of feeling you near,

not in sorrow, but in peace.

The Nearness of an Ordinary Day

(for Fran)

The morning hums with small intentions,

green tomatoes sliced in light,

the scent of vinegar rising like memory from the pot.

I stir, and in the quiet steam

I almost hear you humming,

some tune without words, that only love remembers.

Friends arrive, and laughter fills

the open spaces, where your voice once lived.

I feed them, the way you would,

bread still warm, sweetness shared

from the same old plate.

Later, the phone carries your cousins’ voices,

kind and steady as they’ve always been.

Their love, a bridge of years and miles,

reminds me, family is forever, and you are still its heart.

By nightfall, the house grows still again,

yet I feel you here in the hush,

in the warmth that lingers after company leaves,

in the way gratitude settles

softly over everything that’s left behind.

Tomorrow will come, and with it,

the things I must face. But tonight

I rest in the blessing of the ordinary,

in the quiet proof that love never leaves the room,

it only changes its shape.

October 16, 2025

For Fran — Seasons of Love and Remembrance

I. The Sweetness of Roasted Garlic

By late afternoon, the air had cooled to that quiet edge of autumn where fleece no longer feels indulgent but necessary. Neal passed by in shorts, "Oh..to be young and invincible again." The sun warming his stride, while I sat in the shade, coffee in hand, the steam rising like a small mercy.

Morning had carried me to the doctor’s office, a simple procedure, and the familiar promise of waiting. Before stepping inside, I called Bob. “I’ll bring lunch,” I told him, hot dogs from the Italian market, big enough to need hoagie rolls, and a jar of my green tomato relish, bright as summer in a spoon.

When I arrived, his kitchen was already alive with the scent of tortellini soup vegetables turning soft in the pot, the kind of meal that quiets a house. We ate and talked, old men remembering younger days, laughing at how long it took to understand the truth in our parents’ warnings. Age, it seems, is just a long unfolding of their wisdom.

We spoke then of food, of small discoveries and simple grace. I told him what I’ve been doing with garlic lately, how roasting it turns it tender and sweet, until it melts against the tongue, soft as memory. “It’s like candy,” I said. “You can eat it straight from the jar.” He asked how to make it, and I told him, step by step, then later sent the recipe to his printer, so he could try it himself. “Once you’ve tasted it this way,” I said,“you’ll never go back.”

Back home, I started soup of my own, a way to gather what’s left of the garden before frost finds it. Outside, I covered the porch plants again, their leaves trembling under sheets soaked with dew by morning. They’ll go soon enough, but not yet, not tonight.

Now, the light drifts lower, and the maples take on their slow fire, yellow, gold, and amber, woven through the green. Soon all of it will fall away, and the air will turn sharp and empty. Tonight there is still warmth in the coffee, and the faint sweetness of roasted garlic, lingering on my hands.

II. The Frost Comes Slowly

Evening gathers softly now, as though the sky itself were tired from so much light. The last warmth of day slips past the trees and leaves, the air hollow, silver-edged. I step outside, hands full of worn bed sheets, the same ones I used last night to cover the porch plants, fragile things still reaching for a summer long gone. The sheets billow like ghosts as I spread them across each pot, tucking them gently at the corners, as though kindness could outwit the cold.

They called for frost again tonight. Though I know it’s coming, inevitable as the dimming of the day, I still resist it, still find myself wanting one more morning of green, one more bloom that opens despite the odds.

There’s a strange sort of tenderness in these small rituals of protection, the way we guard what’s fading even when we know we cannot keep it. The frost will come, and take what it will. But not yet, I tell myself, not tonight.

From where I sit, the trees are beginning to turn, their colors deepening into what feels like memory itself, gold, umber, rust, a quiet surrender written in light. In a few weeks, the branches will be bare, and the porch will look empty again, a stage cleared for winter’s silence.

For now, though, the air still holds a pulse of life, the faint scent of soil, the warmth from the kitchen window, the echo of laughter shared over lunch. Beneath their shrouds, the plants breathe slow and patient, trusting, perhaps, that I will come again tomorrow, to keep the frost at bay.

III. The Taste of Memory

By evening, the house filled again, my daughter, her husband, my grandson, gathered around the table, the soup simmering softly on the stove. We ladled it out, steaming and fragrant, the kind of meal built from what the garden gave, and what the heart remembers.

The hotdogs from the Italian market were as good as ever, plump, smoky,topped with the green tomato relish I’d made just days ago. Simple food, but there was something sacred in it tonight, as though the meal itself was waiting for someone else to take her place.

If there was pasta and sauce, Fran was all in, any time, any place, anywhere. Pasta was her joy, her comfort, her love language. But soup, yes, soup was her quiet favorite. If I wasn’t making it, she was sending me out to find it, to bring it home. In those last years, it became her constant companion, soft, nourishing, kind to the body when strength had become a rare and precious thing.

As I stirred the pot this afternoon, I couldn’t help but imagine her voice, “Did you add pasta?” Because even in soup, she always wanted a little more, no broth was complete without something tender floating in it, a few small shapes of comfort, a promise that life was still warm, still full of flavor.

Tonight, as we ate,I felt her there, in the laughter, in the clatter of spoons, in the way the soup seemed to glow in the bowls. She wasn’t here, not in the way I wish she were, but the meal still carried her. It always will.

Simple pleasures, simple things, a bowl of soup, a table full of love, and the taste of memory lingering, sweet and familiar, on every tongue.

Dedication

For Fran, whose love seasoned every meal, whose laughter warmed every room, and whose spirit lingers in the quiet moments between the simmer and the silence.

October 17, 2025

No Redo Button

I sit beneath the late morning sun,

trying to absorb its warmth

while it still lingers.

The air is crisp,

and I can feel the change coming

in the wind, in the light,

in the hollow places inside me.

Sometimes I think

I should have taken up acting,

because I’ve gotten good

at hiding the truth from others.

I talk about Fran when people are near,

I keep her name alive in the air,

but it’s in the quiet hours,

morning and night,

when the mask slips

and the ache comes through.

I remember her hair between my fingers,

the softness of her cheek beneath my hand,

the way she looked back at me,

a gaze that said everything without words.

Those moments,

simple as they were,

were the best of my life.

She used to tell me,

“You’re going to miss me when I’m gone.”

And I’d smile, half teasing, half believing

that time was still on our side.

I had no idea,no idea

how deep that truth would cut.

If I could turn the clock back,

I’d say something better,

something truer,

something worthy of her love.

But life doesn’t offer redo buttons.

It gives us memory instead,

and the impossible task of learning

to live inside its shadow.

So I keep busy.

I fix, I clean, I cook,

I fill the hours with motion.

It helps, for a while.

But no matter where I go,

no matter what I do,

my thoughts circle back to her.Always to her.

And now, sitting here,

in the warmth of the fading sun,

I tell myself I need to stop thinking,

and start doing.

Anything, really.

Because even when the world moves on,

my heart keeps reaching backward,

to the one door

that will never open again.

I can hear Frans spirit, softly answering me from beyond the door I keep knocking on. It's tender, reassuring, and full of quiet love, that's never left me.

From the Other Side of the Door

Tony,

I hear you when you knock.

You think the sound fades into silence,

but it doesn’t, it reaches me,

just softer now, like sunlight through lace.

You always were so gentle with me,

even in the hardest days,

your hands in my hair,

your voice steady

when your heart was breaking.

I felt your love in every touch,

every breath,

every quiet moment when words

weren’t needed.

You say you should have answered me

differently,

should have said more,

done more.

Oh, Tony, you said it all.

You lived it.

I saw it in your eyes every single day.

There is no redo button

because there was no need for one.

You gave me everything I ever wanted,

to be seen, to be loved,

to be safe in your care.

Now, when you sit in the sun,

I am there,

in the warmth that touches your face,

in the rustle of the leaves

that still hesitate to fall.

When you stir the soup,

when you tend the garden,

when you breathe in the cool air

and feel that sudden ache,

that’s me too,

reminding you that love doesn’t end.

It changes form,but it never leaves.

You don’t need to stop thinking,

you just need to remember gently.

Live the way we always dreamed

with kindness, with wonder,

with the strength you never knew you had.

And when you knock again,

know that I’m listening,

always just beyond the door,

smiling,

whispering,

I’m still here.

Stuffed Eggplant, Remembered

It’s early afternoon,

and the sky is nearly perfect,

just a whisper of clouds to the south,

the kind of day that feels like a quiet blessing.

I’ve stepped outside with a cup of coffee,

letting the warmth settle over me

before I go back in to finish what I started.

This morning, I thought about those early years,

when Fran and I were newly married,

and she was determined

to prove herself in the kitchen.

She was a great cook,

though she liked to keep things simple,

meat, potatoes, a vegetable, maybe rice,

nothing fancy,

just the kind of food that felt like home.

But every now and then

she’d get a spark in her eye,

decide to make something different.

I remember her stuffed eggplant,

one of those “I’ll show you” dishes.

It came out good, better than either of us

expected,

though I don’t think she made it again.

That was Fran,

she didn’t need to repeat herself

to prove she could do it.

Today, I’m making my own version,

in her memory.

Four eggplants from the garden,

cut, roasted, scooped.

The insides sautéed with sausage,

onions, peppers, mushrooms, garlic.

Everything coming together in the pan

like conversation between old friends.

When I go back inside,

I’ll fill the hollowed shells,

top them with Parmesan and mozzarella,

and let the oven do its work.

It’s not quite her recipe,

but she’d smile, I think,

seeing me at the stove,

doing what she once did,

keeping her spirit warm

in the heart of our home.

I swear I can hear her even now, much like I did for so many years, and for that I am sincerely grateful.

From the Kitchen Doorway

I can see you, Tony,

standing there at the counter,

the light coming through the window

just the way it used to when we

were together.

You’re cutting, stirring, tasting,

concentrating the way you always did,

as if the whole world depended

on getting it just right.

I smiled when I saw the eggplants

from the garden.

I remember that first time,

me insisting I could do it all myself,

you pretending to stay out of the kitchen

but sneaking glances just the same.

It turned out pretty good, didn’t it?

I was so proud of that dish,

and you were proud of me,

though you tried not to show it too much.

Now it’s your turn at the stove,

and I swear I can almost smell

the peppers and garlic,

the sweet sausage, the onions browning

that wonderful chaos of sound and scent

that always made our house feel like home.

You think you’re cooking alone,

but you’re not.

Every motion of your hands,

every turn of the spoon,

every sprinkle of cheese,

I’m there, right beside you,

just beyond your sight.

You’re doing great,

just as I knew you would.

You see, you didn’t need me

to prove anything all those years ago,

we were always a team,

and we still are.

So bake it until the cheese melts

and sings,

sit down with your coffee,

and taste what love remembers.

If you listen closely,

you’ll hear me say softly,

It’s perfect, Tony. You did it just right.

Late Afternoon on the Deck

It’s 3:18 in the afternoon,

and I’ve just checked on the eggplant,

ten more minutes, maybe a touch longer.

I’ve stepped back outside

to catch what’s left of the sun.

At this hour, this time of year,

the light has already slipped

from the rear of the house to the front.

The warmth goes with it,leaving behind a softer chill,

not cold, not warm,

just resting in that Goldilocks zone

where a jacket feels like quiet company.

The school buses have mostly passed,

their hum fading down the road,

the last few cars making their way home.

Soon there’ll be peace again,

that gentle stillness I wait for every day

when the world begins to hush.

The porch plants still hold their color,

brave and bright,

as if unaware that the season

is already slipping toward change.

Covering them each night

has bought them a little time,

a little more beauty to wake up to.

I’ll do it again tonight,

tucking them in like old friends,

grateful for the small joy

they continue to bring.

Evening Settles In

By the time I came back inside,

the scent had filled the house,

garlic, sausage, roasted eggplant,

all mingling like an old memory

that knows exactly where to find me.

The cheese had melted just right,

edges browned, the top bubbling softly.

I took it from the oven

and let it rest a while on the counter,

steam rising in thin curls

like whispered words I couldn’t quite catch.

"edges browned, the top bubbling softly..."

The kitchen light was warm,

the kind that turns everything gold,

and for a moment it felt as though

the years had folded in on themselves,

as though she might still walk in,

wiping her hands on a towel,

smiling that small, proud smile

that said see, it’s not so hard after all.

I set a plate,

poured a little glass of wine,

and sat down at the table.

Outside, the air was cooling,

the sun sinking past the trees,

the sky deepening toward evening.

The first bite was perfect,

savory, tender, bright with everything

that still matters.

As I ate,

I could almost feel her there,

not a ghost, not a shadow,

but a quiet knowing,

that she saw,

that she approved,

that love, once given,

never truly leaves the room.

When I finished,

I left one half on a plate for later,

just as I used to,

a small, familiar habit

I couldn’t quite let go of.

Then I turned off the light,

looked once more at the table,

and whispered,

Dinner’s ready, Franny.

October 18, 2025

Saturday Morning, October 18

It’s almost 8:30,

and I’ve been up since six,

the world still folded in darkness when I rose.

The air was cool but not cold,

a softness in it,

as though autumn held its breath a little longer.

Sunrise came quietly,

a wash of yellow, orange, and pale pink,

not bold, but beautiful in its restraint.

The kind of light that doesn’t rush you,

just lingers and lets you look.

The kind of light that doesn’t rush you, just lingers and lets you look.

I uncovered the plants,

though they didn’t need it last night.

The air stayed kind,

but tomorrow will be another story,

thunderstorms, wind,

the cold front pushing in,

reminding me that every calm

has its change waiting behind it.

The bread is on its first rise,

warm scent mingling with the early hour.

I still pour two cups of coffee,

still cut too many slices of toast,

before I stop and remember,

there’s only one.

The slowness of these mornings

weighs heavier than I expected.

I thought by now the ache would ease a little.

It hasn’t.

Outside, the leaves resist their turning,

still mostly green, with only whispers of gold and rust

threaded between the branches.

They say the color is full in other parts of the state,

but here, I see only the lingering green,

unwilling to let go.

The timer sounds.

The dough is ready to fold.

And so I rise again, quietly,

to tend to something that still needs me.

Evening, October 18

The bread has cooled for hours now,

its golden crust still whispering warmth

when I press a hand to it.

This loaf came out softer, richer,

the kind of crumb that melts

before you even finish the bite.

I can almost hear Fran say,

“That’s the one.”

“That’s the one.”

The pepperoni rolls browned perfectly,

cheese bubbling at the seams,

that sweet dance of crisp pastry and spice.

I sent my grandson a picture,

a silent invitation he couldn’t resist.

Minutes later, he called back, laughing,

“I’ll be there soon.”

And he was.

Six rolls disappeared before dinner plans,

and the house, for a little while,

felt full again.

Six rolls disappeared before dinner plans,

Now the sun’s easing down,

the air cool but kind,

and I’m heading to the deck

with coffee in hand.

The forecast warns of storms tomorrow,

but tonight is calm,

soft light, quiet air,

and the scent of bread still lingering.

Another day folded neatly into memory,

warm and complete.