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On Grief and Grieving-April Continued
April 17, 2026
Morning Reflections — 5:18 AM
The night unfolded in segments once again. first the recliner, where sleep came early around 8 PM, only to release me at 1:30 AM. From there, the couch offered a brief refuge, a blanket and pillow standing in for the comfort of bed, but even that arrangement proved temporary. By 5 AM, the restlessness returned, a quiet reminder that this is still a body in negotiation with something new.
This added equipment I now carry brings with it a strange duality. The sharp, relentless pain that once accompanied even the simplest act has eased, thankfully, mercifully. Yet in its place is a persistent discomfort, an irritation that never quite fades. Not unbearable, but ever-present. A trade-off, perhaps, but one that i apparently have to live with, at least for now.
The conversation with the visiting nurse lingers in my mind. His caution about sleeping in bed, about the risk of twisting, turning, and unintentionally creating a problem, felt both reasonable and frustrating. I know myself well enough to understand he’s right. Still, there’s something about being kept from one’s own bed that feels like a small but meaningful loss. So, for now, the recliner remains my station, and the couch, a brief experiment.
Outside, the morning waits in quiet stillness. At 57°, the air is mild for this hour, the sky scattered with stars that flicker through the darkness. It’s too early to read the clouds, but the forecast promises a day that leans toward kindness, 74°, with sun and passing clouds. Not a bad offering.
There’s something else ahead that lifts the spirit. A call earlier this week from my oldest grandson in North Carolina, he and his girlfriend are coming into town for a hockey playoff game and will be staying a couple of days. I’m genuinely looking forward to seeing them. At the same time, there’s a quiet concern about how much I’ll be able to do, meals, hosting, the simple act of keeping up, given this lingering fatigue and the constant awareness of discomfort. I suppose we’ll find that balance when the time comes.
Last night brought a welcome moment of ease. My daughter, her husband, and my nearby grandson arrived with pizza and salad, simple, generous, and exactly what the evening needed. Good food, good company, and conversation that drifted easily. Those moments matter more now. They settle something deeper.
Earlier in the day, a small culinary experiment turned into something unexpectedly special. A bag of Anjou pears became the starting point, poached gently, then paired with a sauce built from the reduced poaching liquid, white wine, cinnamon, nutmeg, and sugar. Then, almost on a whim, a splash of Coca-Cola found its way in. Unconventional, perhaps, but the result was rich, layered, and surprisingly refined. Served with puff pastry, vanilla bean ice cream, and fresh whipped cream, it became something more than dessert, it became an experience.
Judging by my grandson’s reaction, three helpings and the declaration that he had “died and gone to heaven”, I’d say it was a success.
Moments like that remind me that even in the midst of discomfort, fatigue, and adjustment, there are still small triumphs. Still sweetness. Still reasons to pause and appreciate what unfolds in front of us.
Even when the night comes in fragments and rest feels borrowed rather than given, the day still finds its way in, carrying with it quiet gifts: a shared meal, a familiar voice, the simple joy of creating something beautiful. In those moments, however brief, life gently reassures us, it hasn’t forgotten how to feel whole.
Since the sun won’t be rising or close to an hour, I’m thinking maybe I might whip up a batch or two of cookies for my guests who will be arriving later today.
I have the Mrs. Fields chocolate chip cookie recipe, which I make quite often and may very well make today, but as I recall, I remember my oldest grandson really liking peanut butter cookies when he was much younger so perhaps they will become part of the days tasks as well.
The sky is offering no resistance this morning. No clouds to soften it, no barriers to hold it back, just a clear, uninterrupted transition from night into day. The horizon brightens with quiet confidence, as if it knows exactly what it’s doing and sees no need to rush or struggle to get there.
Standing at the door, watching it unfold, I can feel that same sense beginning to settle in. Not overwhelming, not forced, just a gentle shift in direction. A reminder that sometimes the best starts don’t come with intensity, but with clarity.
“Some mornings don’t ask for strength, only that we notice they’ve already begun in our favor.”
April 18, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
It’s 6:09 AM on Saturday morning, April 18, and I’ve been awake since 4:00 AM, after spending yet another somewhat restless night trying to sleep in the recliner.
As I sat in the darkness, looking through the living room, past the dining room, and out toward the patio doors into the night, I found myself feeling more emotional than I have in quite some time. That’s not to say the emotional days have ever really left me… they haven’t. But this morning felt different.
There was a heaviness to it.
Even after Fran’s passing, I would still go to bed at night with the full realization that she was no longer there… yet somehow, in my mind, she still was. There was a comfort in that, something I could hold onto, even if only in thought.
Now, with everything that’s been going on, I can’t even sleep in my own bed anymore, and it’s really starting to wear on me. That loss of something so simple, so familiar, feels like another piece quietly slipping away.
As the first signs of daylight began to reveal themselves, I stood there watching the horizon. The sky offered no dramatic display this morning, no bold colors, no fiery entrance. Instead, it unfolded slowly… gently… almost cautiously.
And as I watched, the tears came...
More than I’ve allowed myself in quite some time.
I don’t know what triggered it. I can’t point to a single thought or moment that brought it on. It just… surfaced.
By 6:34 AM, I found myself sitting at the table on the deck, just outside the patio doors, now open to let the cool morning air drift into the house. There was something comforting about that. the quiet, the stillness, the soft movement of air.
I felt thankful… perhaps more so than usual… that I had the chance to witness the sunrise today.
It was subtle. Slow to reveal itself. Not overwhelming, but deeply beautiful in its own quiet way.
Even though it offered some sense of comfort… the emotional pain I’m experiencing didn’t disappear. It eased, perhaps… but it remained.
Later today, my oldest grandson, who lives in North Carolina, is coming to visit. He arrived in town last night and spent the evening with his other grandparents. Around lunchtime, he’ll be heading here to spend the afternoon. We’ll have dinner together, and later he and his girlfriend will head into Pittsburgh for a hockey playoff game.
After the game, they’ll return here for the night, and in the morning, after breakfast, they’ll be heading back.
I’m looking forward to seeing him. I truly am. I know his visit will be a pleasant one.
But somehow… it just won’t be the same.
Fran would have been beside herself with excitement knowing he was coming. She would have filled this house with a kind of energy that made moments like this feel complete.
And that’s what makes today a little heavier.
Not his presence…but her absence within it.
I know things will never be the same. I understand that.
I just can’t seem to bring myself to accept it.
This morning’s sunrise didn’t rush to comfort me. It arrived slowly, as if it understood the weight I was carrying.
Even in its beauty, the ache remained…but for a moment, they existed side by side.
Perhaps that’s what this day is asking of me—not to let go…but to gently carry both.
April 19, 2026
Evening Reflection
It’s 6:53 PM on Saturday, April 19, and I’ve just awakened from what turned out to be an unexpectedly long nap, one that began somewhere around 10:30 this morning, shortly after my grandson, his girlfriend, my daughter, and my son-in-law left following breakfast.
To say that I am exhausted would be an understatement.
After a week of preparing for this weekend, shopping, cooking, cleaning, organizing, my body feels completely drained. Tired. Weak. Borderline nonfunctional, and perhaps today, more than any other, it finally decided it had reached its limit.
Earlier in the week, my grandson called to ask if he and his girlfriend could stay with me while they were in town for a Penguins playoff game. Of course, I welcomed them without hesitation. The plan, as I understood it, was that they would arrive Friday evening.
That plan changed.
They decided instead to stay Friday night with his other grandparents and come to my house on Saturday after lunch. I didn’t make an issue of it, though I had already begun preparing food and making arrangements with their original plan in mind. It wasn’t anger I felt, just a quiet disappointment that things had shifted without any notice.
When they arrived Saturday afternoon, one of the first questions asked was, “What do you have to eat?”
That caught me a bit off guard.
I had assumed they would have eaten lunch before arriving, but that wasn’t the case. So I stepped back into the kitchen and prepared something for them.
Knowing the game wasn’t until 8 PM, I planned dinner for around 4:00 or 4:30, plenty of time, I thought, for them to eat, then head into Pittsburgh, find parking, and make their way to the arena without stress.
That plan changed as well.
After preparing sixteen pieces of fried chicken, a large batch of coleslaw, pepper dip, and French fries, I was told they were leaving around 3 PM to grab something to eat in the city before the game.
That one hit a little harder.
With all that food prepared and no realistic way for me to use it, I invited my daughter and son-in-law over for dinner. We shared a good meal, some conversation, and for a while, things felt balanced again.
Later that evening, after my grandson had left for the game, I received a text asking if I could prepare sandwiches for them when they returned.
That was the moment I reached my limit.
When they got back and asked about food, I reminded him of everything that had already been prepared earlier in the day and told him, gently but firmly, that I was done for the day. If he was hungry, he knew where the refrigerator was and was more than welcome to help himself.
And he did.
Before heading to bed, he asked if I would be making breakfast in the morning.
I told him I would, and asked what he’d like
.
“Surprise me,” he said. “You make the best breakfast.”
So I did what I always do.
I prepared a large tray of Baked French toast with praline topping, along with bacon, orange juice, and a spread of cookies I had baked earlier in the week. I had also made eggs Benedict with crab cakes and hollandaise sauce for those who would enjoy it.
Breakfast was shared, conversation was had, and by around 10:00 or 10:30, they were on their way back home.
I asked him to be careful and to let me know when they arrived.
After they left, I sat down in my chair, just for a moment, and that moment became the entire day.
Aside from getting up briefly a couple of times, I slept straight through until early evening.
My body had simply shut things down.
It’s now 8:52 PM, and as I sit here with the only light in the room coming from the television, my thoughts have drifted back over the day… and back to Fran.
I can’t help but think how much she would have enjoyed seeing our grandson. How she would have lit up just knowing he was here, regardless of how long he stayed or how the plans unfolded.
I can almost hear her now, gently reminding me...
“At least he made the effort. He came. And he brought someone special in his life to share it with you.”
That was Fran.
She didn’t dwell on what didn’t go as planned. She embraced what was.
Not because everything was always perfect… but because she chose to meet life where it stood, rather than where she wished it had been.
I, on the other hand, sometimes get caught in the moment.
I let frustration creep in. I dwell on what didn’t happen instead of what did. I hold onto things that, in the grand scheme, probably don’t deserve that much space.
Tonight, sitting here thinking about it, I feel a lot of guilt for allowing myself to get upset over things that Fran would have simply let pass.
She was a very special person, to everyone who knew her.
But most of all to her children and grandchildren.
They were everything to her.
Maybe that’s what I need to hold onto tonight.
Not what didn’t go according to plan…but the simple truth that he was here.
I miss her more than I can put into words.
In moments like this, when I find myself searching for her voice, her perspective, her quiet way of setting things right… I’m left wondering how I’m ever going to truly overcome her loss.
There are moments when the body speaks in ways the mind has long ignored.
Today was one of those moments.
Somewhere between the effort and the expectation…between what was planned and what unfolded…there came a quiet realization:
I cannot continue at the pace I once did.
Perhaps just as importantly…
I cannot continue to see things only through my own lens.
Tonight, I try, however imperfectly, to see this day the way Fran might have seen it.
Not for what it lacked…but for what it quietly offered.
And maybe in doing so…I keep a small part of her still guiding me forward.
April 20, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
It’s 6:20 AM on a Monday morning, and it’s been another long night.
Sleep came in fragments, if it came at all. Every hour or so I found myself waking, shifting, trying to find some position that might offer comfort, only to realize that comfort just wasn’t part of the equation. The recliner, once again, served its purpose… but not much more than that.
Outside, the day isn’t offering much encouragement.
The sky is completely gray. Thick, heavy clouds have taken hold, leaving no hint of the sun behind them. A cold, blustery 35 degrees only adds to the weight of it all. Not exactly the kind of morning you hope for when you’re already running on empty.
This past weekend took more out of me than I expected.
Not a typical weekend, at least not the kind I used to handle without a second thought. My body made that very clear. It’s starting to speak a little louder these days, reminding me that things have changed… and that I can’t do what I once did without consequence.
That realization sits heavy.
Even the small routines felt like too much this morning. I didn’t prep the coffee last night like I always do. Today’s cup is yesterday’s leftovers, good enough, I suppose, but a quiet reminder that even the simplest habits can slip when energy runs low.
There are things that need to be done.
Beds to strip, linens to wash, the house to put back in order after having my grandson and his girlfriend here. None of it urgent… but all of it waiting, and right now, even thinking about where to begin feels like more than I can manage.
So for the moment, I sit.
Coffee in hand. Eyes drifting between the room and that gray horizon. Letting the morning be what it is.
And in the spaces between thoughts, Fran is there.
She always is.
Last night, in those quiet stretches between sleep, my mind kept circling back, trying once again to make sense of something I know can’t be explained. I understand the idea of the circle of life. I’ve heard it, seen it, lived around it my entire life.
But understanding something… and accepting it…are two very different things,
and I’m not sure acceptance is something I’ll ever fully reach.
Especially on mornings like this.
Cold. Gray. Still.
The kind of day where the weight of everything feels just a little heavier… and the absence just a little more present.
Maybe today isn’t about getting everything done. Maybe it isn’t even about finding answers.
Maybe it’s just about getting through the hours as they come, one small moment at a time.
Somewhere behind those clouds…whether I can see it or not…the sun is still there.
Just like her.
It’s now 6:38 AM, and as I peer through the patio doors, that wall of gray continues to hold its ground. I know the sun is there. Somewhere behind it all, it has already crested the horizon, doing what it always does, whether we see it or not.
But this morning… it’s choosing to remain hidden.
When I opened the door to take a photograph, the air hit me in a way I wasn’t quite prepared for. A cold, damp chill, sharp enough to grab hold and remind me that this day isn’t going to ease in gently.
It was the kind of cold that doesn’t ask permission. The kind that tells you, plain and simple, it’s time to get moving.
Standing there for a moment, camera in hand, I took it all in.
The layered clouds, shifting but going nowhere. The faintest glow behind them, trying, maybe, to push through. The trees, still holding onto that early spring promise, despite everything the morning is throwing at them.
And me… caught somewhere in between.
Part of me wanting to retreat back inside, to the warmth, to the recliner, to whatever comfort I can manage. Another part knowing that, like it or not, the day has already begun.
There’s something about mornings like this.
They don’t inspire. They don’t invite. They don’t offer much in the way of encouragement.
But they do one thing very clearly...
They remind you that even when nothing feels right…the day still moves forward.
Maybe today isn’t about chasing the sun.
Maybe it’s about trusting that it’s there, even when all you can see is gray.
And maybe that’s enough…for now.
It’s 7:54 AM, and as I continue my watch through the patio doors, the morning just keeps getting better.
What began earlier as uncertainty, gray skies, hesitation, and a quiet sense of disappointment, has slowly given way to something far more hopeful. The sun has finally risen above the clouds, stepping into its role without hesitation, doing what it does best. It brings warmth, not only to the body, but to the mind… and to the heart.
And in that warmth, I can’t help but feel her.
Fran had a way of doing exactly this. No matter how heavy things felt, no matter how clouded a moment might have been, she had this quiet ability to let the light in. Not all at once. Not forcefully. Just enough… just when it was needed.
Standing here now, watching the sun break through, it feels familiar. Like something I’ve seen before, not just in the sky, but in her.
There’s something about that first breakthrough of light.It doesn’t rush. It doesn’t demand attention. It simply arrives… gently, faithfully… and changes everything.
And maybe that’s where she still lives now.
In these moments. In the warmth that finds me when I least expect it. In the quiet reminders that things can still turn, still improve, still become something more than what they first appeared to be.
Things are looking up… far more than I had anticipated when I first stood here at 5 AM.
And maybe that’s her way of reminding me...
That even behind the heaviest clouds, the light hasn’t gone anywhere. It’s just waiting for the right moment to show itself again.
April 21, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
Clarity Before the Day Begins
It’s 5:20 AM, and I’ve just made my way out of the recliner after yet another restless night.
Sleep continues to be more of a struggle than a solution. The chair offers a place to rest, but not the kind of rest the body truly needs. It’s a constant shifting, searching for comfort that never quite settles in, and with that comes frustration… the kind that builds slowly through the night and lingers into the morning.
Questions follow close behind.
Why isn’t more being done? Why does it feel like everything is being managed, but nothing is being resolved?
After 76 years of living in this body, I’ve learned to listen to it, and right now, it’s telling me something isn’t right.
Yesterday brought more calls, more messages left, and once again, no response. That silence is difficult to ignore when what I'm feeling inside demands attention.
But this morning… something shifted.
At 5:56 AM, I stepped outside and noticed the horizon had already begun to reveal itself about 15 minutes earlier. What stood out immediately wasn’t just the light, it was the clarity.
Not a single cloud in the sky.
Nothing to the north. Nothing to the south. Lookimg East, just an open, uninterrupted stretch of sky quietly preparing for the day ahead.
The forecast is calling for sunshine most of the day, and for once, it appears to be right on track.
There’s something about a sky like that, completely clear, nothing in the way, that feels different. Almost like a quiet reassurance that, at least in this moment, things are aligned the way they should be.
I stood there for a while, taking it in.
The deep blue overhead, slowly giving way to that faint glow along the horizon.
The silhouettes of the trees standing still, almost like they were waiting too.
No rush. No noise. Just the slow, steady arrival of a new day.
And maybe that’s what this morning is offering...
Not answers. Not resolutions. But a moment of clarity.
A reminder that even when things feel clouded elsewhere…the sky, at least today, has chosen to be clear.
And in that quiet, I can almost hear her…
Not in words, but in feeling.
A gentle reminder that not every burden needs to be carried all at once…that some things unfold in their own time…and that even on the hardest mornings, there is still light finding its way in.
April 22, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
A Quiet Conversation Beyond the Clouds
It’s 6:58 AM on this Wednesday morning, April 22, and I’ve already been awake for hours, trying to gather myself for the day ahead.
Another night spent in the recliner. Another night of broken sleep, shifting positions, searching for comfort that never quite comes.
It’s beginning to wear on me in ways that are hard to ignore. The body feels empty. The mind feels tired before the day even begins.
And the questions keep returning, as they so often do in the quiet hours: How long will this last? What is it going to take to make things right again?
There’s a certain frustration that comes with waiting, especially when the answers you need are somewhere beyond your reach, tied up in a system that moves far slower than the pain it’s meant to address.
If you were here, Fran, I know what you’d say.
You’d remind me, gently, perhaps patiently, that not everything moves at the pace we want. That sometimes we’re asked to endure more than we think we can, even when it doesn’t seem fair.
You’d probably tell me to step toward the door…to take a look outside…because there’s always something there worth seeing.
This morning, the sky is heavy with gray. Clouds stretch across the horizon, and a light drizzle hangs in the air, barely noticeable, but present all the same.
Fifty-four degrees now. Warmer later, they say. Maybe even some sun breaking through around nine.
You always believed in those moments, the ones where the light finds its way through, even when the sky says otherwise.
Bob stopped by yesterday.
He brought food, unasked, just because he knew it would help. That’s the kind of man he is. You always appreciated that in people, the quiet goodness, the willingness to show up without needing recognition.
You would’ve smiled about that.
I spent part of the day working on drawings for our son, deck plans, three different options, each one building on the other. I could almost hear you in the background, asking questions, offering thoughts, seeing the finished space
before it even existed.
That’s how you were.
Maybe that’s how this day will be too, not exactly as I’d like it, not as easy as I’d hope, but still holding pieces worth noticing.
Because even now, in the middle of gray skies and tired bones, there’s something steady that remains.
Love doesn’t leave. It just finds quieter ways to stay.
Maybe… just maybe…when the sun finally breaks through those clouds later this morning, it won’t just be light.
Maybe it’ll be you, reminding me, once again, that I’m still here…and that somehow, that still matters.
April, 23, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
From First Light to Full Day
It’s 5:47 AM on Thursday, April 23, and I’ve already been up for hours.
Another night in the recliner. Another attempt to find comfort that never quite arrives.
I settled in around 7 PM, and as best as I can recall, it took quite a while to drift off. Sleep, when it came, was shallow and uncertain, more like borrowing rest than actually receiving it.
By 1 AM, I was up again. A trip to the bathroom. Back to the chair, and then the familiar routine, shifting, adjusting, searching for a position that might offer relief, only to lose it moments later.
Maybe I drifted in and out for an hour. Maybe less. Eventually, I gave up trying.
At 3:15 AM, I got up for good.
Even something as simple as washing up, something that used to be automatic, almost unnoticed, now takes time, effort, and caution. It’s strange how life narrows your focus like that… how the smallest tasks become the biggest reminders that things have changed.
I put the coffee on. and then, almost without thinking, I started a triple batch of bread dough.
There’s something grounding about that process. Measuring, mixing, folding, it gives structure to time when everything else feels scattered. I’ll let it ferment slowly in the refrigerator today. Maybe later, if I have the energy, I’ll bake it off. Maybe not. But at least it’s there… quietly becoming something.
Outside, it’s 54 degrees.
The patio door has been open for over an hour now, letting in the cool morning air. It’s still too dark to see the horizon, but when I look up, I can catch a few scattered stars, just enough to remind me that the sky is still there, even if it’s holding back the light for now.
I suppose I’ll know soon enough what kind of morning it plans to be.
For now, I’ll spend a little more time folding the dough before setting it aside.
The visiting nurse called yesterday, said he’d be here again today. I think around 10:30 AM… though I’m not entirely sure. That uncertainty bothers me more than it probably should.
I try to write things down now. I really do.
But there’s so much happening, so much to keep track of, that I feel like I’ve reached some kind of saturation point… where even remembering to write things down slips through the cracks.
And that… that’s a scary place to find yourself.
It’s now 6:06 AM, and the day’s first light is slowly beginning to rise above the horizon.
At this particular moment, there isn’t a cloud to be found. Just a wide, open sky, deep blue overhead, gently giving way to a thin band of warmth at the edge of the earth.
The temperature has already climbed a few degrees in the past half hour,
a subtle but noticeable shift… as if the world itself is beginning to stir.
Between stepping outside to take this photo and responding to the timer reminding me to fold the dough, the pace of the morning is starting to quicken.
What began in stillness is now quietly moving forward.
The sky continues to stretch and open, and now there are signs of movement, thin streaks drifting across the blue, marking the passage of something unseen.
A single line reaches upward, almost perfectly vertical, like a quiet marker drawn between where the morning began and where it’s heading.
Time, visible for just a moment.
It’s now 6:54 AM, and from my vantage point, the sun has fully revealed itself above the horizon, filtering through the branches of the trees just behind the shed at the back of the property.
What was only a faint suggestion of light not long ago has now taken form…steady, warm, and unmistakably present.
The sky, once deep and quiet, now carries motion. The morning no longer waiting, but arriving.
Between stepping outside for another photograph,checking the dough,and simply standing still long enough to take it all in, the rhythm of the day has begun.
And maybe… so have I.
All in all, things are shaping up to be a fairly decent day—at least weatherwise.
It’s now 7:07 AM, and after finishing the final fold, number four, of the latest batch of bread dough, I moved it into the refrigerator for its cold fermentation.
A quiet sense of completion… at least for that task.
But not long after, with the patio door still open to the morning air, something broke the calm.
Noise.
At first, just a sudden burst, unfamiliar in its intensity. Then more of it… loud, persistent, almost chaotic.
For a moment, I wasn’t quite sure what I was hearing.
But within seconds, it became clear,
a wild turkey.
Just one.
Somewhere just beyond the edge of the backyard, working its way up the hill. For a single bird, it was making enough noise to sound like a whole flock.
I’ve heard them before, of course…that scattered chatter, the occasional call.
But this was different, louder, more insistent, as if it had something important to say and wasn’t about to be ignored.
Fortunately, my DSLR was right there on the dining room table.
It’s been sitting there for several days now, left out intentionally, because too many times I’ve gone looking for it only to return and find the moment already gone.
Not this time.
This morning, it was exactly where it needed to be.
I grabbed it, stepped into position, and managed to get several shots off before the turkey made its way across the roadand disappeared up through my neighbor’s yard.
Just like that… gone.
But not missed.
The images are still on the camera. I’ll download them later today, see what I managed to capture…and maybe share a few in the blog.
Another moment, brief and unexpected, but part of the morning just the same.
It’s now 7:45 AM, and the light outside has turned… magical.
What began as a quiet rise from darknesshas now taken on something far more expressive.
The sky is no longer just a backdrop, it’s alive with movement.
Bands of light stretch outward and upward, as if the morning itself is reaching, expanding beyond the horizon, beyond the trees, beyond anything I can fully take in.
Standing here, watching it unfold, it’s hard not to feel like I’m witnessing something more than just another sunrise.
Because some mornings don’t just arrive…
they reveal themselves.
There are moments now when everything feels just a little harder than it should, when even the simplest things demand more than I have to give, and remembering… becomes something I have to hold onto tightly.
In those moments, I find myself reaching for her.
Not out of panic. Not out of desperation. But in quiet conversation.
Because if she were here, she wouldn’t try to fix any of this.
She’d simply stand beside me, place her hand over mine, and steady me in a way no one else ever could.
And in that stillness, I can hear her voice,
soft… certain… familiar,
“One step, Tony… just take one step.”
April, 24, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections — 5:57 AM
The day doesn’t so much arrive this morning as it gathers itself.
I’ve just made my way out of the recliner, the coffee beginning its quiet work in the kitchen, and the patio doors stand wide open, as if even the house is curious about what’s coming. The air moves in gently at 58°, cool but not harsh, carrying with it that unsettled feeling that only a sky like this can create.
Overhead, the clouds are heavy… layered, restless, almost brooding. Not yet storming, not yet releasing, just holding on to something. Off to the east, faint flashes of lightning flicker behind the cloud bank, like distant conversations you can see but not hear. No thunder. No rain.
It’s a different kind of morning.
Not the soft, reassuring glow that eases its way through the portal. Not the gentle unfolding that brings comfort with it. This one feels more like a question than an answer… a pause before something decides what it wants to be.
Standing here, coffee in hand, I realize how familiar that feeling is.
There are days that arrive with clarity… and others, like this one, that hover somewhere in between uncertain, unresolved, carrying both light and shadow at the same time. Much like the space I find myself in more often than not.
I can’t help but think how Fran would’ve read a sky like this.
She had a way of softening even the most unsettled moments… of seeing not the weight in the clouds, but the possibility behind them. Where I might see tension, she would’ve seen anticipation. Where I pause, she would’ve smiled and said,
“Let’s just see what it turns into.”
Maybe that’s the lesson this morning offers.
Not every day needs to begin with certainty. Not every sky needs to be clear to be meaningful. Sometimes, just standing in the doorway… watching… waiting… is enough.
Because even in a sky that feels heavy, there are still flashes of light finding their way through.
And maybe… just maybe…that’s her way of reminding me she’s still here.
It’s 7:23 AM and I’ve just finished dividing the bread dough up into three parts. Did some light kneading, put them in smaller containers with lids and nestled them back into the refrigerator.
As I sit here now, peering out at the horizon, I can see that today has definitely become lighter, but by no means brighter, with heavy layers of clouds and a light rain falling. The good news is that the rain is supposed to stop at around 8 AM and the forecast is for sunshine for the rest of the day, with a few clouds. I guess I’ll have to wait and see how that all works out. The high temperature for today is forecast for 79° so there’s definitely some potential here for now. I’ll sit sip on my coffee and watch as the rain quenches the landscape.
Morning Brew & Reflections — 7:23 AM
The morning has settled into itself now.
The heavy layers of clouds remain, stretched across the horizon like a blanket that refuses to lift. A light rain continues to fall, steady but gentle, just enough to darken the wood of the deck and soften the edges of everything it touches. It’s not a storm… more like a quiet offering.
The kind of rain that doesn’t demand attention, just acceptance.
There’s talk of sunshine later. Around 8 AM, they say, the rain will pass…and by afternoon, the sky may open up, allowing warmth to settle into 79°, a number that carries with it the promise of something entirely different than what sits before me now.
But for the moment… this is what the day is, and I find myself in no rush to move past it.
There’s a certain peace in watching the rain do its work… in knowing that even under a heavy sky, something necessary is taking place. The ground is being nourished. The air is being cleared. The pause has purpose, even if it’s not immediately visible.
Much like the dough resting quietly in the refrigerator, no movement, no visible change…yet everything important is happening beneath the surface.
Maybe that’s another connection this morning offers.
Not every moment needs to rise right away. Not every day needs to shine from the start.
Some things… good things…require a little time in the quiet, a little patience in the waiting.
So for now, I’ll sit here, coffee in hand, andcontinue to wath the rain, trusting that, in its own time, the light will find its way through.
When it does…it will be all the more meaningful for the wait.
It’s 7:41 AM and I suppose I should start thinking about getting ready for an appointment to get an ultrasound at Westmoreland Hospital this morning, at 10 AM.
I’ve just about had it with all of these health issues I have een burdened with. My family Dr wants me to have this ultrasound done because he’s concerned about possible heart issues due to the swelling in my legs. I can only hope that’s not the case, with all the other issues I have going on. I don’t need any additional concerns at this point in time, or ever for that matter.
Just sent a text to my friend Bob. I wanted to let him know that I might stop by and pay him a visit after I get out of my appointment, since he lives very close to the hospital. Perhaps I’ll stop by the Italian market on my way to the hospital and pick up some lunch for him and his wife, since they are always so kind to me.
There’s a certain exhaustion that comes with all of this, not just physical, but mental. The constant appointments, the waiting, the wondering. Now this… concerns about the swelling in my legs and what it might mean. Heart issues.
Even the words feel heavier than they should.
I find myself pushing back against it.
Enough already. Haven’t there been enough things to manage… enough to carry?
But the truth is, whether I welcome it or not, it’s here, and so I go.
Not because I want to, but because I need to know.
Even on a morning filled with uncertainty, there’s still a part of me that wants to give, to acknowledge the kindness that’s been shown to me time and time again. Maybe that’s how balance finds its way in, through small gestures that remind me I’m not just on the receiving end of all this.
I’m still me.
Still capable of showing up…even if it’s in simple ways.
So maybe that’s the path for today.
Take care of what needs to be done. Go to the appointment. Listen. Learn, and then… if the moment allows… step into something familiar. Something human.
A visit. A conversation. A shared moment. A lunch.
Because even on days when the weight feels like too much, there are still places where it can be set down, even if only for a little while.
Sometimes…that’s enough to keep moving forward.
Evening Reflection
“The places we return to, whether by choice or necessity, often hold more than memories, they hold pieces of us we’re still trying to understand.”
It’s now 8:07 PM, and I’ve just finished cleaning up the dishes after spending about an hour out on the porch, doing my best to soak in what remained of the day’s sunshine. It was a beautiful afternoon, one I needed more than I realized, but even that light couldn’t fully quiet what today stirred up.
The morning began with a trip to Westmoreland Hospital for a 10 AM appointment. The testing itself was routine, nothing overly concerning, but the experience of being there was anything but routine for me.
Before heading to the hospital, I stopped at a local Italian market and picked up a few things, chicken Romano, spinach stuffed mushrooms, pasta salad, and a few pastries, to bring to my friend Bob’s house afterward. A small gesture, but one that felt right.
Since Fran passed on July 10, I’ve gone out of my way to avoid going anywhere near that hospital, whenever possible. Today, I couldn’t. Walking back into that space, sitting in the waiting room for nearly an hour, brought everything rushing back, the long days, the painfully quiet nights, the moments spent holding her hand, stroking her cvheekand forehead, brushing her hair, and simply being there while she lay unconscious.
Fran had told me more than once that she didn’t want to take her last breath in a hospital. She wanted to be home. That thought has stayed with me ever since, and today it returned with a heaviness I couldn’t ignore.
I still find myself questioning that decision, replaying it, wondering if I could have done something differently. But deep down, I know the truth. A visiting nurse, who was at our home the day she took her last trip to the hospital, made it very clear at the time: she needed to go to the hospital. There wasn’t really a choice, even if it sometimes feels like there should have been.
After the appointment, I went to Bob’s house. We shared a delicious lunch, and for a little while, things felt normal again. His wife wasn’t home, and he suggested I take the food I brought for her back with me, but I couldn’t do that. It was meant for her, and it stayed.
I returned home around 2 PM and turned my attention to the bread I had fermenting in the refrigerator. Three loaves in total, simple work, familiar and grounding. By 4:30, they were finished, filling the house with that unmistakable warmth and comfort that only fresh bread can bring.
Later, I found myself back out on the deck, sitting quietly in the sun. The weather was beautiful, but the thoughts from earlier in the day found their way back to me. It seems that once certain doors are opened, even briefly, they don’t close so easily.
Still, I’m beginning to understand something, no matter what decision I had made that day, I would likely still be questioning it. That’s the nature of love and loss. We carry both, and sometimes they speak at the same time.
Dinner was something new, steelhead trout, my nephew had given me a couple of weeks ago. I baked it simply with lemon pepper, olive oil, garlic, onions, and thinly sliced carrots, all sealed in foil. I’ll admit, trout was never a favorite of mine, but tonight it surprised me. It was good, better than expected. I may try a blackened version next time.
Fran,
Now, as the day comes to a close, I find myself preparing for rest, though I’m not sure how much sleep will come. There’s always a lot to process after a day like this.
Even so, I’ll make my way into the blog, because writing isn’t a task. It’s a choice. More often than not, it’s the one thing that helps me make sense of it all.
As the day finally loosens its grip and the last of the light fades beyond the trees, I find myself returning, not to the hospital, not to the questions that still linger, but to you.
Not to the moment you left, but to all the moments you stayed.
I still see you in the quiet spaces, in the warmth of the kitchen as bread rises and fills the air, in the soft glow of the afternoon sun resting gently on the deck, in the silence that somehow still carries your voice.
You wanted to be home, and maybe, in ways I’m only beginning to understand, you never really left.
Because home was never just a place, it was you. It still is.
Somehow, through all of this…I’m still here, holding on, carrying you forward, learning, slowly, that love does not end where life does.
It lingers. It breathes. It remains.
Still loving you always and all ways...
Tony...
April25, 2026
Afternoon Reflections — A Taste of Yesterday
It’s 12:33 PM, and about an hour ago I pulled three coffee cakes from the oven.
Rain had settled in for the day, steady, gray, and uninviting. The kind of weather that doesn’t ask much of you except to stay inside and find something simple to do. So I did what I often do… I cooked.
I pulled out the recipe for that New England coffee cake, one that always feels like it belongs on a day like this, and before long, three of them were baking away, filling the house with a warmth the weather outside couldn’t offer.
While they were in the oven, I found myself flipping through YouTube, looking for something different, something to break the rhythm. I landed on a compilation of Caribbean music paired with sweeping aerial views of the Bahama Islands.
The music caught my attention.
But the memories… they took over.
Before long, I wasn’t in the kitchen anymore, I was back in Aruba, in July of 2006, with Fran.
It was one of the best trips we ever took.
I can still see us sitting outdoors at lunch that first day. I remember noticing the iguanas before she did, moving around behind her, slipping under tables where bits of food had fallen. I hesitated to say anything… but eventually I told her to look.
That was all it took.
Fran immediately wanted out of there. Not because it wasn’t beautiful, it was, but because there were lizards running around, and that was enough for her. That was Fran… steady in so many ways, but with certain lines she just wouldn’t cross.
A couple days later, we rented a four-wheel-drive vehicle.
Now that… that was probably more my idea than hers.
I’ve never been one for guided tours. I’d rather find my own way, even if it means there isn’t much of a “road” to follow. On the Atlantic side of the island, there were moments where the terrain got rough, really rough. There were times that vehicle felt like it was tipping more than it should, and Fran made it very clear she wasn’t enjoying the ride.
She let me know, in no uncertain terms, that she didn’t want that Aruba trip to be her last.
Looking back… she wasn’t wrong.
But even in those moments, there was something unforgettable about it all. Driving through the less developed parts of the island, coming across what I can only describe as wandering herds, goats, donkeys, maybe mules, wild dogs… things just appearing out of nowhere like we had stumbled into their world instead of the other way around.
And then there were the beach bars.
They seemed to be everywhere, open, welcoming, and strangely quiet. I made it a habit, more than once a day, if I’m being honest, to walk over and bring back frozen drinks. Margaritas, piña coladas, daiquiris… whatever looked good at the moment.
There was one place in particular.
A man named Roosevelt worked there, a local, friendly as could be. He’d see me coming and more often than not, he’d double the order without charging a cent extra. Just one of those people you don’t forget.
Of course, it was so hot that by the time I made it back to where Fran was sitting, those “frozen” drinks weren’t frozen anymore. Still cold… but softened by the heat, just like the edges of memory seem to soften over time.
And yet, some things remain perfectly clear.
That trip.
That laughter.
Those small moments, some chaotic, some quiet, that somehow became part of something much bigger.
A life.
A life we shared.
As I sit here now, on a rainy afternoon with coffee cakes cooling on the counter and Caribbean music still echoing faintly in the background, I realize something…
We will never take that trip again.
But in a way that matters just as much,
We just did.
Somewhere beyond the rain, beyond the quiet hum of this afternoon, there’s a shoreline still holding our footprints.
You’re there, Fran, laughing at the things that unsettled you, holding steady in the moments that didn’t, and reminding me, just as you always did, that "the journey matters more than the path we take."
And maybe that’s what this day is really about…
Not the rain. Not even the baking.
But the gentle return to a place where we were still side by side, sunburned, smiling, and a little out of balance, with frozen drinks melting in the heat and time, just for a while, standing still.
And even now… in the quiet of this home, in the warmth of this kitchen, in the memory of that distant shore,
we’re still traveling, Fran.
Just… differently.
April 26, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
It’s 6:54 AM on Sunday, April 26, and I’ve been greeted by another gray morning, not exactly what I had hoped to see.
The air outside sits at 47°, with a high of 64 expected later today, though the sun apparently has no intention of making an appearance until sometime after 1 PM. For now, it’s just a blanket of gray stretching across the horizon, muting everything in sight.
Last night followed a familiar pattern, long, restless, and short on anything that resembled real sleep. I didn’t finally drift off in the recliner until around 3:30 AM, and even then, it came in fragments. The kind of sleep that passes time, but doesn’t restore anything.
Standing here, peering through the patio doors, I find myself trying to piece together some sort of plan for the day. Nothing ambitious, just enough to give the hours a little structure.
At the top of that list is a simple reality: I need to get out and do some shopping. There are essentials that have run their course and need to be replaced. Nothing complicated. Just necessary.
Yet, at this moment, I have absolutely no desire to go anywhere.
So for now, I’ll keep things simple. Pour a cup of coffee. Stand here a while longer. Watch the gray hold its ground.
And maybe, just maybe, wait for that promised break in the clouds to find its way through…not just out there on the horizon, but somewhere in here as well.
There were mornings like this when even the sky seemed unsure of itself, and I would have said something about it, half complaint, half surrender.
You would’ve smiled…not because the day was beautiful, but because you knew it didn’t have to be.
You had a way of finding light even when it refused to show itself, not chasing it, just trusting it would come.
So I’ll stand here a little longer, coffee in hand, watching the gray do what it does…
and somewhere in that quiet waiting,I’ll feel you beside me, reminding me that the sun has never once forgotten how to return.
Evening Reflections — The Moon Before Its Time
It’s 5:48 PM and I’ve just stepped out onto the deck after grabbing a bite to eat, hoping to catch what remained of what turned out to be a truly beautiful afternoon, at least as far as the weather was concerned.
As I scanned the horizon, something caught my attention almost immediately. The moon… already visible, sitting maybe 35 degrees above the horizon. Not something I can recall noticing very often, especially this early in the evening.
The sky itself was something to take in, deep blue overhead, softening to a lighter shade near the horizon. The kind of sky that makes you stop, even if just for a moment.
Earlier in the day, I had gone out around noon to take care of some shopping and didn’t make it back home until about 3:30. Somewhere in the middle of that, my grandson called, asking if I could come to the door and let him in. I had to laugh… he thought I was home with everything locked up.
I reminded him he already had the garage code and could let himself in.
When I finally got back, he and my son-in-law were just finishing up, patio furniture moved out from the shed, insect treatment already taken care of around the house. A couple of things I had mentioned needing to do… handled without me even asking.
That didn’t go unnoticed.
While I was out shopping earlier, I had gone into the grocery store and my eye was immediately drawn to a display of fresh bouquets that had just been put out.
Before I could even think about it, I already knew one of them was coming home with me.
And it did.
I brought it back and placed it on Fran’s memorial on the china cabinet in the dining room. As I stood there arranging them in the vase, it brought back a flood of memories… all the times I had come home with flowers for no particular reason at all.
Nothing specific. Just because.
Fran always appreciated them… but she would still ask, almost every time,“What are these for?”
And I always gave her the same answer,
“They’re for you.”
It’s about 61° now, though it feels cooler. The back of the house faces east, and with the sun long gone from this side, the temperature drops quickly. I had to go back inside for a fleece just to stay comfortable.
I probably won’t stay out much longer.
The day, for all its beauty, carried something else with it.
Last night I watched videos from a trip Fran and I took to Aruba… and today, those memories stayed close. Maybe too close. All the trips we had talked about… the places we thought we’d go… now just thoughts that have nowhere to land.
I tried to stay busy. Tried to keep moving. But some things don’t let go that easily.
Bob’s wife called last night to thank me for the food I had dropped off. She also mentioned a group that meets Mondays through the Norwin Art League, just a handful of people getting together, no real structure, each doing whatever suits them in the moment.
She invited me to stop in.
It was kind of her. Truly.
And maybe I will.
But I can’t help wondering… is this what life looks like now?
Today carried more loneliness than I’ve felt in a while.
Even with the radio playing… the TV on…the house somehow held onto its silence.
Standing out here now, under a sky that feels almost too perfect, with the moon arriving before its time… I find myself thinking about how some things don’t wait, and others never come at all.
But then again…
Some things never really leave either.
Because as I stood there earlier, arranging those flowers, it all came back so clearly…all the times I walked through the door with something in my hands and no real reason to explain it.
And you’d ask, like you always did…“What are these for?”
And I’d tell you,
“They’re for you.”
Funny thing is… nothing’s really changed.
I may be placing them on a shelf now instead of handing them to you, but they’re still for you, Fran.
They always were.
And they always will be.
April 27, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections: Always My Sunshine
It’s 6:44 AM, and the morning arrives quietly once again.
The patio doors remain closed against the chill, but the light still finds its way in, filtering through the branches of the spruce, soft and patient, as if it understands there’s no need to rush.
I can’t see the sun clearly, not yet…only glimpses of it—scattered and diffused, peeking through where it can.
Somehow, that feels fitting.
Because lately, that’s how everything seems to come to me… not all at once, not in full clarity, but in fragments, moments, memories, pieces of something that once felt whole.
Hanging there in the window is a simple reminder… a butterfly, gently suspended between inside and out.
Always My Sunshine.
It catches the light in a way that almost feels intentional, as if it was placed there not just for decoration, but for moments like this one.
Moments when the mind wanders…when sleep has been restless…when the quiet of early morning leaves too much room for thoughts that are hard to carry.
Yet, even in that… the light still comes.
Not boldly. Not all at once. But enough.
Enough to remind me that something still reaches through the branches…something still finds its way in.
And maybe that’s you, Fran… not in the full brightness of what once was, but in these gentle pieces of light that still arrive, soft, steady, and exactly when I need them most.
Still finding me…still warming me…
always my sunshine.
Stepping Back Into the World
It’s 4:43 PM, and I’ve just turned on the Insta pot to start a French dip roast beef, something simple, something comforting, and honestly, something that didn’t require a whole lot of thought.
It’s been a fairly busy day… more so than most lately.
I left the house around 10 AM this morning to meet with a group of retirees at the Norwin Art League in Irwin. The invitation came from Bob’s wife, Barbra, last Friday, and I had mixed feelings about whether or not I’d go.
The more I thought about it, the more it made sense.
It would be a chance to get out… to be around people… people who, like me, are navigating this stage of life with time, experience, and perhaps a few shared understandings.
As always, I couldn’t show up empty-handed.
I brought along one of the “Your Grandma” New England coffee cakes I had made on Friday. It didn’t take long to realize it was a good decision, it was a hit.
When Barbra introduced me to the group, conversation started easily enough.
Before long, I learned that two of the gentlemen there were also recent widowers.
That realization landed quietly… but deeply.
There was something unspoken in that moment, a shared understanding that didn’t need explanation.
The rest of the group included four women, all working independently in watercolor. No instructor, no formal structure, just people showing up every Monday from about 9 AM until noon or so, creating in their own way.
Around 11, they paused for a break. Between the coffee cake and a large bowl of fresh fruit someone had brought, it turned into one of those simple, communal moments that feels easy… natural.
At some point, it came up that I had started my career as an art teacher.
That changed things rather quickly.
Before long, I was being asked if I’d be interested in teaching a class. I had to smile at that one…“I’ll have to think about it,” I said. “I am retired now, the key word being retired.”
I spent a couple of hours there.
I have to admit… it was enjoyable. Interesting. Different.
The space itself is quite nice, recently remodeled, with a gallery in the front and artist's materials available for sale there as well. A place built around creativity, but more importantly, around people.
Back home, reality returned in its usual way, what to make for dinner.
Nothing elaborate. Nothing complicated.
A chuck roast from the freezer turned into the idea of a French dip sandwich. Simple enough, until I realized I didn’t have any beef stock.
So, back out to the store.
But once I returned, things came together quickly. A little prep, a quick sear, some sautéing, and into the Insta-Pot it went. Now it’s just a matter of time, about an hour under pressure and a slow release to finish.
Some things, at least, still follow a predictable path.
When I got home from the store, I noticed a bag of containers sitting on the front porch.
After checking my messages, I realized they were from Nancy, Fran’s friend from years back, someone she had been very close with.
She must have stopped by while I was out.
There’s a certain irony in that.
I hadn’t really left the house in over a week… and the one day I decide to step out, that’s when someone comes by.
A little disappointing, if I’m being honest.
But… I suppose there will be another time.
Maybe that’ also part of what today was about…stepping out, even just a little, into a world that still has people in it, people with stories, with shared losses, with unexpected invitations.
Even when the timing doesn’t quite line up…when visits are missed and moments slip past… there’s still something quietly reassuring in knowing that connections are still there…
waiting.
Just like you, Fran…
never really gone, just sometimes arriving when I’m not quite there to meet you.
April 28, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
It’s 6:07 AM on a rainy Tuesday morning, and once again, the day begins not from a place of rest, but from recovery, pulling myself out of the recliner after another long night that only loosely qualifies as sleep.
The sky outside mirrors the feeling inside, wet, gray, and heavy.
There was, however, one small victory. I remembered to use a breathe-right strip last night, something I had overlooked the past few nights. It made a difference, subtle, but noticeable. A reminder that even the smallest adjustments can offer some degree of relief.
Yesterday, I made the call to the doctor’s office at UPMC, hoping to get clarity before my upcoming test on Thursday. Like so many times before, the call didn’t lead to a conversation, only a recording. A message left, but no response returned.
It’s becoming increasingly difficult to accept a system where communication feels one-sided, where patients are left to navigate discomfort, uncertainty, and concern without the simple courtesy of acknowledgment. I understand that people are busy, but there is a human element here that seems to be slipping away.
When you’re dealing with something that impacts your daily comfort, something that follows you through every hour of the day and night, that lack of response becomes more than an inconvenience. It becomes part of the burden.
There’s a test coming on Thursday, and with it, the hope, however cautious, that it leads to answers. That it leads to decisions. That it leads, ultimately, to some form of relief.
Because the question that lingers in the quiet moments is a difficult one:
Is this temporary… or is this something I have to learn to live with?
It’s now 1:46 PM, and the day has found its rhythm in the kitchen.
I just slid about two dozen meatballs into the oven, soon to be added to a pot of spaghetti sauce that’s been slowly coming together since earlier this morning. There’s something steadying about cooking… something familiar… something that still makes sense when other things don’t.
Earlier today, I had a 10:30 appointment. nothing major, just one of those ongoing maintenance issues that seems to come with time. For me, it’s my ears.
A couple of days ago, I woke up with the strange sensation of what felt like liquid sloshing around in my left ear. I tried to manage it myself with drops, but it wasn’t getting me very far. So I mentioned it, and this morning they took care of it, flushed everything out.
It’s a routine I’ve come to know over the years. What started maybe 25 years ago as something occasional has slowly turned into something that needs attention every six months or so. Not serious… just persistent.
Looking back, I probably should’ve recognized the signs sooner.
The television creeping louder…my daughter asking why it was turned up so high…and me insisting it wasn’t loud enough to understand what was being said.
Little things… until they aren’t.
On the way to the appointment, I stopped at the local market and picked up a dozen donuts for the office staff. It’s something I’ve made a habit of over the years, and I’ve come to appreciate what a small gesture like that can do.
It’s funny how something so simple can open doors…how a bit of kindness—shared over coffee and a donut, can make the experience feel more human.
A small price to pay for a little extra care and cooperation.
Outside, the sky is still holding onto its gray. The rain has let up, but the clouds haven’t moved on just yet. The forecast is calling for sun later this afternoon, around four or five, but at the moment, it’s hard to imagine.
Still… I’ve seen days turn around before.
Bob called earlier this morning while I was at the doctor’s office.
I returned the call once I got home but haven’t heard back yet. Hopefully nothing urgent, just one of those missed connections that will sort itself out in time.
For now, the meatballs are in the oven, the sauce is waiting, and the day is moving forward, quietly, steadily, whether it looks like it or not.
Somewhere in the quiet of this gray day, I can hear Fran reminding me that not everything has to be solved all at once. That sometimes it’s enough to keep moving…to tend to what’s in front of you…to stir the sauce, check the oven, and trust that clarity will come in its own time.
Because even on the heaviest days, love doesn’t disappear, it simply finds quieter ways to stay.
As a final thought, there’s another lesson in all of this…
If nothing else, I’ve come to understand that a dozen donuts can accomplish things that a dozen phone calls sometimes can’t.
Not exactly a perfect system…but for now, it seems to be one that works, and in a world that feels increasingly complicated, I’ll take progress wherever I can find it, even if it comes glazed and sitting in a cardboard box.
April 29, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
At 6:33 AM, I find myself easing into the day after managing a bit of rest, nothing substantial, but enough to take the edge off. I slept in the recliner until about 6:15, and when I opened my eyes, the faintest hint of morning light was already filtering through the patio doors.
I didn’t even have to get up to understand what kind of morning it was.
Gray. Overcast. Quiet in a way that feels more heavy than peaceful.
The temperature sits at 56°, with a high of 65 expected, and rain set to begin around 10 AM, likely staying with us for the rest of the day. One of those mornings where the sky doesn’t just hang overhead… it settles in.
Across the room, the television was still on, soft piano jazz playing beneath a slow-moving, candlelit scene. It must have been running all night.
And somehow… it fit.
A quiet glow in a darkened room. Artificial light trying its best to soften a very real kind of emptiness.
As my attention shifted toward the patio doors, the contrast became clear.
Outside, the day was just beginning, but without enthusiasm. No color pushing through. No warmth reaching in.
Just a soft, muted beginning.
I had hoped to start a few plants today.
But sitting here now, I’m not so sure that’s going to happen.
There’s a realization settling in, one I’ve been quietly resisting. This may be the first year in a long time that I won’t be starting my own plants from seed. In years past, by now I would have trays well underway, some already nearing a foot tall, preparing for their place in the garden.
This year feels different.
The energy just hasn’t been there… and maybe that’s part of accepting that life is shifting in ways I didn’t ask for, but can’t ignore.
I spent much of last night thinking about the test scheduled for tomorrow.
It’s strange how something can feel both necessary and unsettling at the same time. There’s a part of me that wants answers… and another part that isn’t so sure I want to hear them.
Still, if it leads to understanding what’s been going on, then it’s something that has to be faced.
Grin and bear it.
Bob called yesterday and insisted on taking me to my appointment/test. I told him I could manage, but he wouldn’t hear of it. That’s just who he is.
I don’t like feeling like I’m imposing on others… but I know his offer comes from a place of genuine care.
So tomorrow morning, he’ll be here at 6:30 AM to take me into Pittsburgh.
And just like this morning…I’ll meet it as it comes.
If you were here, Fran, you would’ve noticed the light before I did.
Not the brightness, but the way it tries, even on a morning like this.
You would’ve told me that not every day needs to bloom, that some are simply meant to hold steady…to wait.
Maybe that’s what this is, not an ending, not even a setback, just a quieter season.
One where the seeds are still there…even if they haven’t found their way to the surface just yet.
April 30, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
It’s 2:28 PM and I’ve just awoke from a brief and not particularly comfortable nap, after returning home from a long and stressful morning at the hospital.
The day began early, well before it needed to. By the time Bob pulled into the driveway at around 6:15 AM, I had already been up for a couple of hours, the quiet weight of anticipation doing what it does best… keeping sleep at a distance.
The ride itself turned out to be far easier than expected. Light traffic, no real delays, and parking that didn’t require circling endlessly like so many other visits in the past. Small victories, but welcome ones just the same.
The testing, however, was another story.
Nearly two hours in length, requiring the removal of the catheter placed during my ER visit a couple of weeks ago, followed by the insertion of two more. Not exactly what I would describe as a comfortable way to spend a morning. A walk around catheter was placed before I left, and for reasons I can’t quite explain, this one feels even more uncomfortable than the last, irritating, intrusive, and at times painful.
At some point after getting home, I glanced through the results posted in the UPMC app. Line after line of medical terminology, available, yet not exactly understandable. Information without clarity.
Bob came in for lunch. A simple French dip sandwich and some kettle chips. Nothing elaborate, but enough to sit, talk a bit, and ease the edge of the morning. He left just before noon, mentioning he was heading home for a nap. I told him I’d likely be doing the same.
I did manage to sleep, but not deeply, not comfortably.
Before that, I made sure to call my daughter. She had reached out early this morning and asked me to let her know how everything went. A promise kept, even if the answers themselves were still uncertain.
Outside, the day has never really arrived.
It’s cold, 46 degrees, but feeling closer to 37. A damp, lingering chill that doesn’t belong at the end of April. The sky has remained a dull, unbroken gray from morning through now, and the forecast’s suggestion of sunshine later this evening feels more like wishful thinking than anything grounded in reality.
Standing at the patio doors, looking out at that flat horizon, it’s hard not to feel the weight of it all, the tests, the discomfort, the uncertainty, and the quiet that follows.
And yet…
Even in a day like this, there were moments of steadiness.
A ride that went smoothly. A friend who showed up. A meal shared. A promise kept.
Not victories in the traditional sense, but enough to carry the day forward.
If you were here, Fran, I can almost hear what you’d say…that not every day needs to shine to matter. That sometimes just getting through it, quietly, without fan fair, (something you did so many time for so many years) is more than enough.
Maybe you’d remind me, as you always did, that the sun hasn’t disappeared at all…it’s just waiting, patiently, for its moment to break through.
Morning Brew & Reflections — Evening Entry
“Holding the Line”
It’s 6:38 PM, and the house has just gone quiet again.
My daughter and son-in-law stopped by earlier this evening, surprising me with dinner from a local restaurant so I wouldn’t have to worry about cooking. They stayed for a couple of hours, and for that time, things felt… normal. We shared a good meal, some easy conversation, and for a little while, the weight of the day seemed to ease its grip.
There was a moment when things could have shifted.
My son-in-law asked about the test, what they did, how it went, and I gently reminded him that we were sitting down to eat dinner. Not the best time to go down that road. We both understood, and we let it go. My daughter offered to stay longer, maybe even spend the night, but I told her it wasn’t necessary.
I’ll be fine.
At least that’s what I said.
But when the door closed behind them, the reality of things settled back in.
This new catheter is far more uncomfortable than the last one. Maybe it’s just a matter of getting used to it. I hope that’s all it is. I really do. Because the thought that this might become something permanent, that this could be part of my everyday life moving forward, is difficult to accept.
More than difficult.
It’s unsettling in a way that reaches beyond the physical discomfort.
It’s the unknown.
It’s strange how the body works, and how the mind follows.
When discomfort takes hold, even in small ways, it becomes everything. It narrows your focus, reshapes your priorities. Things that once felt routine, like simply going to bed, stretching out, and sleeping through the night, suddenly feel like luxuries that are out of reach.
For the past couple of weeks, sleep has been found in the recliner.
Interrupted. Restless. Never quite enough.
Tonight, if I’m being honest, I don’t expect much to change.
I would give just about anything for a full night’s sleep in my own bed…to lie down without adjustment, without irritation, without waking every hour trying to find comfort that doesn’t seem to exist right now.
But I don’t think that’s going to happen anytime soon.
And yet…
Tonight wasn’t without its gifts.
A knock on the door. A meal I didn’t have to prepare. Time shared with people who care enough to show up without being asked.
We kept the conversation where it needed to be. We protected the moment.
And that matters.
Closing Reflection
Sometimes the day doesn’t give you answers. Sometimes it leaves you with discomfort, uncertainty, and more questions than you had when it began.
But even on days like this…there are small mercies.
A meal shared. A quiet understanding. A moment that didn’t unravel.
and maybe that’s enough for now.
Not to solve everything…but to hold the line until tomorrow has its say.
There are nights when the body refuses comfort, and the mind drifts toward places it doesn’t belong.
Tonight may be one of them.
But I can hear her voice, in the quiet, not asking for answers, not trying to fix what can’t yet be fixed…just reminding me, in the way she always did ,to take the moment as it comes.
To let the worry wait. To sit with what is, not what might be, and maybe, somewhere between the discomfort and the stillness of this house, there’s a trace of that same peace she carried so gacefully.
Enough to get through the night. Enough to try again tomorrow.
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