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On Grief and Grieving January 2026
- kresicki
- Jan 1
- 47 min read
Updated: 19 hours ago
January 1, 2026
I actually can’t believe I’m really up and moving around. I first woke up around 4 AM which was insane because I didn’t go to bed until 1:30 AM. Obviously not sufficient sleep for a normal person, so I’m guessing I’m not so normal. I actually thought twice about staying up but after getting out of bed at 4 AM I really didn’t feel bad at all, I jumped into the shower and was out into the kitchen by 4:30 AM pouring my 1st cup of coffee for the day, and apparently the new year. I’m not tired at all. I’m actually feeling somewhat refreshed and most likely will feel a lot more so once I crack open this patio door because the outside air temperature is currently at 18° with a feel like of 14°.
It’s still quite dark outside, so I really can’t get a good handle on how much snowfall we had last night but I can see enough to know that we had some It’s looking like there’s about 4+ inches on the table top, but I really can’t tell quite yet. I’ll get a better handle on that once things start to lighten up outside.
As far as I could tell, the roads are snow covered, but I definitely recall hearing plows going through last night, so I’m not sure exactly how much snow is accumulated on the roadways. Once things start to lighten up outside and I can get a better feel for road conditions, I will decide on whether or not I’ll be going to my friend Bob’s house for brunch.
Last night was a bit of a challenge since it was the first New Year’s eve that I’ve spent without Fran. Needless to say, I was a bit antsy all night long, and being alone was never anything that I anticipated in 2026. When I really start thinking about this whole grieving process, I almost feel guilty because I often times find myself thinking, "is this what the rest of my life is going to be, living it alone by myself, in this insanely quiet, lonely house."
The loneliness is bittersweet, because there were so many times, I just wanted to have a decent night's sleep, undisturbed, not having to be on watch, and now I would give anything to take on those responsibilities again, if it meant having Fran back here with me.
Waking up after a hard night (especially a first holiday without Fran) has apparently flipped my body into a weird, alert mode. Sometimes grief runs on adrenaline. Perhaps I'm up because my mind and heart have been “on watch,” even though my body didn’t get the rest it requires.
I'm told that what I said about feeling guilty for thinking, “Is this the rest of my life?,” that’s a very common grief-thought. It isn’t a betrayal of Fran. It’s my brain trying to map the future after the person who made “future” feel like a shared thing is no longer physically here.
A couple things I need to gently reflect back to :
I'm not choosing loneliness. It’s landing on me.
Missing the old responsibilities (being “on watch,” interrupted sleep, all of it) doesn’t mean I liked the hardship. It means I loved the life that included her, even the difficult parts
The quiet can be brutal because it’s not neutral quiet, it’s “absence quiet.” That hits hardest on threshold moments like New Year’s.
The Best Damn Coffee
Just about every day I think about how I used to prepare Fran's coffee for her. As soon as I heard her moving about in the bedroom poured her a cup and then added the cream and sugar, so that it would be on the table and ready for her to drink, as soon as she sat down. For whatever reason that thought just won't leave me this morning.
Fran and I have been coffee people for as long as I can remember, right back to our college days. She liked cream and sugar in hers. I drink mine black, and it wasn’t some noble health decision. It was economics. When I arrived at college at 17, I didn’t even like coffee. I started drinking it because I didn’t have enough money for milk or orange juice in the mornings.
First I drank coffee with plenty of milk and sugar. Then I realized I couldn’t afford milk. Then I realized I couldn’t even afford sugar. So I drank it black, and I’ve been drinking it that way ever since.
When we first got married, I made our coffee with a percolator. It worked. We weren’t connoisseurs then, we just knew we loved coffee and we knew some brands were better than others. As time passed and we could afford something a little better than the cheapest can on the shelf, we started upgrading. The real turning point came years later when my daughter gave us a grind-and-brew coffee maker, one she and her husband weren’t using because they weren’t coffee drinkers at the time. That machine changed everything. Fresh-ground beans don’t just taste different, they feel different. The smell alone can change the whole mood of a morning.
Somewhere along the line I picked up a little trick: a tiny dash of salt added to the grounds before brewing. Not enough to taste “salty,” just enough to take the edge off and smooth things out. We eventually settled into an Italian espresso blend, and with that little dash of salt, it goes down like silk.
For the last four or five years, our mornings had a rhythm. The moment I heard Fran stirring in the bedroom, I’d pour her coffee. More times than I can count she’d say, “Tony, you make the best damn coffee.” After meds and breathing treatments, I’d make her breakfast, though “breakfast” often meant toast. She wasn’t big on morning meals, and that’s one of the things that hits me hard now: I’ve finally found a bread recipe that’s truly fantastic and I’ve gotten good at it… and there’s no doubt in my mind she would have loved this stuff, but sadly she is no longer here to enjoy it with me.
Even now, on a morning like this, I still set up the coffee the night before, beans loaded, water measured, so when I get up, I just press the start button. The beans grind while I’m moving around, and by the time I reach the kitchen, the coffee is ready. It’s a small ritual that still makes the morning feel like it has purpose… even in the quiet.
Some habits don’t disappear when the person you love is gone , they just become a way of carrying them forward.
Morning Brew & Reflections
7:27 AM • 15° (feels like 6°) • High: 31°Snowfall: ~6–7" on the back deck
What’s in the cup
Coffee in hand. Oven warmth in the kitchen, and that quiet, familiar hope that the sky might actually show me something worth remembering.
What I’m noticing
As I pulled a pizza out of the oven this morning, one I’m taking to Bob and his wife, I caught it out of the corner of my eye, the outdoors had brightened up quite a bit.
The sky is changing. I may even get to see the sun.
A respectable sunrise always seems to reset something inside me. Even if the rest of the day turns gloomy, I can look back on that one moment and let it carry me.
What’s happening around the house
We got more snow overnight than I realized. The table on the back deck is holding about six to seven inches, and the deck itself had a heavy layer too. I had to clear some of it just to open the door, using what was readily available: a very large spatula.
The plows have already been through, and the road is plowed and salted, so at least right outside my door things look relatively clear. I’m not sure I’m ready to venture out just yet… but I’m hoping I will.
What I’m bringing with me
If I do head out, it’ll be with a few homemade comforts for good company:
a fresh loaf of bread
a cranberry star bread
and a white pizza for later today
Photos
Closing reflection
New Year’s morning feels like a threshold, cold, quiet, and honest. Today I’m grateful for simple things: a working oven, cleared roads, a reason to leave the house, and a sky that’s giving me even a chance at sunrise.
This morning the world outside was hushed under snow, the air sharp enough to sting, and the day began the way winter often does, quiet and uncertain. Then the sun arrived like a gentle answer. It slipped through the glass and woke the butterfly to life, as if heaven had pressed its thumbprint against my window. “Always My Sunshine.” A simple phrase… and yet, this morning it felt like a message: light still comes, love still reaches, and grace still finds the places we thought were too cold to hold it.
It’s currently 4:59 PM going on 5:00 PM New Year’s Day and it’s been quite eventful. Went to my friend Bob’s house at around 10:00 AM this morning for breakfast/brunch, whatever, and it was quite the lovely experience. We chatted for a good while prior to eating. I sat on a barstool at their kitchen counter while he and his wife prepared the food, and we had quite an enjoyable conversation. That conversation continued throughout breakfast and extended well beyond, since I didn’t leave until approximately 1 PM.
Made my way home and stopped at the market on the way to pick up a few items. Got home, unpacked them, and then sat in the recliner in my living room. Since I had gotten up so early, 4 PM to be specific, I knew that as soon as I sat down, it was good night time. Indeed that’s what happened. Just woke up about a half an hour ago and would probably still be sleeping if my phone hadn’t rang. As it turns out, it was my daughter just checking on me. We chatted for a while, and then said our goodbyes. Think I’ll be preparing some more bread this evening since I gave away one to Bob along with a star bread, some soup, and a white pizza. Now there’s only one loaf left, which I will be eating part of for dinner, with some soup I made two days ago.
January 2, 2026
It’s 8:13 AM on Friday, and I’m in the kitchen, awake for the second time, but finally up for good.
I stirred at 4:00 AM, but I knew I wasn’t going to repeat yesterday’s early start. After coming home from Bob’s, I sat down and went out like a light, my body making it clear I’m still paying back a sleep debt.
Outside it’s around 20°, and the sky is the color of old steel, low clouds, gray and heavy. The forecasters say the sun may break through later, and I’m quietly rooting for that. A little sunshine can tilt the whole day in a better direction.
In the refrigerator, bread dough is doing what it does best, working patiently while everything else catches up. I’ll pull it out soon and bake again today. The loaves keep improving, and the requests for “more” keep coming, which still makes me smile.
No real plan beyond that—just bread, hope, and the possibility of sunlight. If nothing else, I’d like the day to deliver that.
While patiently awaiting the bread dough to make its final rise I decided to use up some cream cheese filling and cranberry chutney, I had in the fridge, to make a puff pastry. The process was relatively simple with frozen puff pastry on hand, and the results far surpassed my expectations both in taste and appearance.
It’s 8:29 PM, and today had that steady kind of motion that keeps the house feeling alive.
Once the puff pastry was finished this morning, I baked two loaves of bread, and they came out beautifully—good enough that they didn’t last long.
At 2:00 PM, my financial advisor called and said he was stopping by. We talked briefly, and I sent him on his way with a box full of comforts: fresh bread, cranberry-and-cheese puff pastry, cookies, nut roll, and that cranberry chutney I’ve been spreading on just about everything lately, because it’s unbelievably good.
Later, at around 4:30 PM, Neal texted to see if I was home, and to ask about the nut roll and bread I’d meant to give him before Christmas. The nut roll was already history, but I told him he could still stop by because I’d baked bread today, just let me know when, so I could be here.
He showed up around 7:30 PM. We visited for a bit. I gave him a taste of the cranberry puff pastry, offered a nut roll (he passed), and he happily took a fresh loaf of bread.
By the time the evening settled, both loaves were gone, so I mixed up more dough and put it in the refrigerator to cold-ferment for tomorrow.
So much for “taking it easy.” Tonight I’m aiming for a quiet landing, recliner, TV, and hopefully staying awake long enough to enjoy it. If not, I’ll do what I sometimes do: drift off, wake up at an unreasonable hour, and then finally put myself to bed.
January 3, 2026
7:02 AM, First cup of coffee in hand, I took a glance out the patio door to see the world waking up. Just a hint of light in the southeast, and I didn’t want to get my hopes up, but I had a feeling today might deliver a respectable sunrise.
Last night got away from me. I fell asleep in my recliner around 11:00, woke up at 12:30, and for a moment I was ready to start beignet dough at 1:00 AM. I didn’t, but the idea stuck. I set myself up anyway, butter out to soften overnight, and a batch of Bavarian cream tucked into the refrigerator to chill.
So today’s plan starts early, mix the beignet dough first thing so it has time to rise, then deep-fry later. Meanwhile, I’ve got a couple loaves cold-fermenting in the refrigerator that need to be finished today, too.
If everything comes together, I’m thinking I’ll take some of each over to my daughter’s, if it’s still early enough. Maybe we’ll turn it into a small continental breakfast.
I opened the patio door to grab a quick photo and got an instant wake-up call, a blast of cold air poured in while I stood there in jeans and a T-shirt. 16° outside, feels like 11°. That brief moment was… memorable.
8:08 AM Still no sign of the sun, but it feels like some unseen force is trying to pry the clouds apart. So far, the success rate has been negligible.
I guess my weather-forecasting skills aren’t exactly award-winning, but there’s still hope. A few small hints suggest things could improve, if they do, it’s going to take time.
8:31 AM Then it happened, the sun finally managed to make its way through the cloud cover. Just a bright pocket of gold, but enough to change everything. My day suddenly felt quite a bit better.
Now I’m hoping it keeps moving in that direction.
I ended up spending far more time on beignets than I ever expected today.
I followed the recipe to the letter, but the dough felt way too loose. Even after the first rise it hadn’t tightened much, so I worked in a small amount of additional flour, just enough to make it manageable. After another hour and a half or so, it still felt sloppy, and I hit that familiar crossroads: Do I keep trusting the process, or do I intervene?
I chose a middle road. I chilled the dough in the refrigerator for a couple of hours to firm it up. It helped, but not quite enough, so I added a couple tablespoons more flour, kneaded it briefly, formed it into a ball, and gave it another cold rise for an hour to an hour and a half.
Somewhere in between all that, while baking off two loaves of bread, I finally got the dough to the point where it was workable, though just barely. I didn’t pull the first loaf of bread from the oven until nearly 4:00 PM, because of all the fussing with the beignet dough. The second loaf came out shortly after, and at least that part of the day felt back under control.
Around 5:00 PM I rolled the beignet dough into sheets, cut it into 3” x 3” squares, set them on parchment, and chilled them again. By about 7:00 PM I fried the first six, and they came out wonderfully.
I filled them first with Bavarian cream (with a little Baileys Irish Cream mixed in), then gave them a second injection of my cranberry-orange filling for a sweet-and-savory kick. Once they cooled, they got a light dusting of powdered sugar.
Then came the best part, I called my grandson to see if he was home, because I remembered how much he liked beignets the last time I made them. He told me he was on his way to Seven Springs to meet a friend to go skiing, but said he would stop anyway. He even joked that if he’d been halfway there, he would’ve turned around to come back for some.
He stopped in for a bit, sampled two, and took three to go. That left one beignet behind, which I obviously had to sample for “quality control.”
Earlier I’d invited my daughter and her husband to stop by if they wanted some. They arrived around 7:30–8:00, each had a beignet, and we also shared a slice of the cranberry-orange and cream cheese puff pastry I’d made last night. They stayed for a nice visit and left around 9:00.
After a bit of cleanup, I was ready to call it a day. I only wish Fran were here to have enjoyed the fruits of the days labor, and the company and love it brought with it.
As I continue to wade through this sea of daily insanity, I often wonder what is it that keeps me going. The only answer that I can come up with is that Fran would have wanted me to do whatever it is I need to do, to keep moving forward, to keep her memory, for as long as I am able, in the hearts and minds of our children and grandchildren and, all who knew and loved her.
A PROMISE FOR THE DAYS AHEAD
I loved deeply, and I was loved deeply.
That love did not end, it changed form.
I will remember Fran with gratitude,
not only pain, her kindness, her patience,
her caring heart, the way she loved our family,
and treated others with grace.
I will miss her honestly.
I will grieve at my own pace.
I will not shame myself for the hard days.
When my mind gets crowded,
I will return to what grounds me,
to the patio doors, to the portal
between the locust trees,
and to the smile I still see
there looking down on me.
Today, I will do the next right thing,
one small task,
one steady breath,
one kind choice at a time.
I will let simple comforts count,
warm coffee, honest reflection,
fresh bread, a soft song,
a butterfly at the window,
a memory that makes me smile.
I will accept help.
I will stay connected.
I will keep showing up.
God willing, I still have years ahead,
and I will live them in a way
that honors the love we shared.
Grief may walk beside me,
but it will not be the only thing
in this house.
I will carry her love into my future
and I will learn to live again.
January 4, 2026
It’s 7:36 AM on Sunday, January 4. Another extremely cloudy gray dreary, overcast day ahead, at least that’s what the weather forecasters are calling for. Current temperature is at 22° with a high today only being 29°, and with all the clouds, not something I’m looking forward to.
I'm pretty much caught up on all the things I need to do, at least I think so. I’m not exactly sure what the day will bring. What I know now, what keeps tugging at me, are all the thoughts that run through my head, not just on a daily basis, but minute by minute.
Keeping active, busy, doing things, anything, definitely helps me maintain my sanity, keeps my mind off of things I really don’t want to think about, but they’re always there. Always knocking at the door, looking for a way in.
I often find myself thinking about how unhappy my parents were when I had to move them into an assisted living facility. They wanted absolutely no part of it, and fought me constantly, at times it got pretty ugly. At this point in my life, I can now understand at least some of what they were going through since they both lived to be well into their 90's. I can only surmise that there will be plenty of references ahead for me as well. Even prior to my moving my parents to assisted living, they were always complaining, perhaps complaining isn’t the word, but they always let me know that it would be nice if I could come and visit them on occasion, which I did, but apparently in their mind not often enough. Now I feel guilt because back then I would tell Fran and myself, we have lives to live too. How can they expect us to live our lives around theirs?
After they both passed, and Fran started quickly going downhill, I’m plagued with thoughts of how I should’ve spent more time with her, how I should’ve savored every moment we had together, how we both knew things weren’t going to end well, and now I know I should’ve treasured the time we had more than I did.
Now that my parents and Fran are gone, sometimes I feel like I’m paying penance for sins I’ve committed in the past, but the fact of the matter is, I just didn’t know how they’re passing was going to affect me.
Much like my parents I now often times wish my family would spend more time with me. and I know that selfish, that they have their own lives to live, but the loneliness sometimes is absolutely horrendous, There’s no doubt in my mind that my family spends more time with me, checks in on me far more often then what is normal for others? I know they worry about me, and no doubt probably do even more than most do, which is more than I should ask for.
Once again, the loneliness can be almost debilitating. Sitting here in my recliner, with a bit of smooth jazz in the background, sipping a cup of coffee, the silence in this house can sometimes be, as is now, deafening. All too often, I find myself turning on the TV, turning on the radio, turning on my computer, my tablet, putting music or news on and sometimes all the above, just to make some noise, just to try and soften the impact of being here alone.
When I think about the time I have left, I can’t help but wonder. Is this feeling of loneliness going to go away or is it going to get worse, and if it’s the latter how the hell am I gonna deal with it? Since it will most likely be the latter, I guess I’m just going to have to find a way, and hope that the heartache of losing Fran will somehow find a way to amend itself.
Even though the house is extremely quiet this morning, my mind is working to make sense of all the love, all the regret, all the “if only I’d…” that comes with losing Fran (and with remembering my parents, too).
About the guilt and the “paying penance” feeling
Apparently, one of griefs' favorite tricks is to drag today’s pain backward in time and try to rewrite my choices as sins.
But I wasn't withholding love from my parents, I was trying to balance life the way most adult children do, with limited time and imperfect information.
With Fran… I didn’t “fail” her. I lived alongside an unthinkable decline, day after day, doing the best I could, inside a reality neither of us wanted. I'm told the reason guilt shows up so fiercely isn’t because I was cruel. It’s because I loved deeply, and my love is looking for somewhere to go now.
Will the loneliness go away… or get worse?
I have also been told that with people who are grieving (in the patterns I've described), it usually doesn’t just “go away.” It changes shape.
Some days it eases because I'm connected, engaged, moving.
Some days it spikes because the house is quiet and my mind goes hunting.
Over time, I find it becomes less constant, and more wave-like, especially when I build a few reliable “anchors” into the week.
A way to handle today
Not a big makeover. Just something that helps me through the next 6–10 hours.
Keep my hands busy Pick an “absorb me” project:
bake something small with a clear finish line (a quick loaf, even a single batch of dough to freeze)
organize one photo folder (only one)
prep a soup or sauce I can portion and give away later
Give the thoughts somewhere safe to land
Write a short note titled: “What I wish you knew” (to Fran, or to my parents). Don’t polish it. Just spill it.
Or: “Three moments I did show up.” (Because I did.)
And one tiny connection
Send one text that doesn’t require a whole plan:
“Morning, thinking of you. If you’re free later, I’d love a quick call.”
Or: “I’ve got coffee on and jazz going, if you feel like a short visit today, you’d be doing me a favor.”
A tiny trick that might help on days like this
Before I sit back down, stand up, stretch, and take a 3–5 minute walk through the house (even just stairs once, or a lap from room to room). It might flip the switch from “stuck” to “moving” without requiring motivation.
January 5, 2026
It’s 6:26 AM on Monday, January 5, 25,° outside quite cool, or should I say cold, with a high predicted today of 44°. I can handle the 44° part! Calling for clouds all day, so there’s more than likely no chance of any kind of sunrise ahead. One of those, "I really don’t have anything to look forward regarding the start of my day kind of days".
Didn’t you go to bed last night until about 1 AM, only because after updating my blog, I made the mistake of doing a search on Google related to grief and grieving. I was quite moved by a lot of the material I came across, so moved in fact, at times that I sat there with tears flowing from my eyes. There were quite a few poems and remembrances that really struck home, and came close to putting me over the edge several times, but like a fool I kept on reading.
I think it’s strange how many of the things and thoughts that are anchored in our brains, that brought us so much pleasure, so much joy, once gone, can bring us so much pain.
Yep... That’s one of the cruel little paradoxes of love. The very same “anchors” that used to light me up, songs, routines, a smell in the kitchen, a phrase Fran used, even the idea of a sunrise, don’t disappear now that she’s gone. They stay wired into me, and when Fran became suddenly unreachable, my brain didn't interpret it as “a memory.” It interpreted it as absence. So the joy and the pain are now sharing the same doorway.
And that late-night grief reading? It's not foolish. It’s human. When I'm tired (1 AM tired) my defenses are down, and the words slip past the armor. Some poems don’t just describe grief… they touch it.
If today becomes one of those “clouds all day, no sunrise to lean on” mornings, perhaps there are a few ways I can steer it, pick what fits, leave what doesn’t:
Give myself a boundary with grief content: “Not before breakfast,” or “Only 15 minutes, then I stop.” Grief reading is powerful, sometimes too powerful, especially when I'm raw.
Swap the “sunrise ritual” for a “first light ritual”: even if the sky is gray, I can still mark the day beginning, coffee, a candle, one song, one photo, one paragraph in the blog. Same gesture, different weather.
Let the pain have a container: instead of letting it spill all over the day, I could write Fran a short note, just 5 to 10 lines, about what hit me last night. Not an essay. Just a clean release.
This morning didn’t arrive all at once—it unfolded.
A faint glow at the edge of the world…
then warmth… then color spreading like reassurance across the clouds. The trees stood in silhouette, winter-dark and honest, while the sky did all the talking.
And there in the window: “Always my Sunshine.” A simple suncatcher, a simple sunrise, yet together they felt like a message. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just steady.
Keep going. I’m here.
I stood there watching it change by the minute, soft at first, then brighter, until it had me completely hooked. Seeing that little sun-catcher that says “Always My Sunshine” hanging there in the same frame as the sunrise… well, that felt like more than coincidence.
No complaints today. This is a good way to begin.
Not a lot got accomplished today… but I did manage to keep busy.
I spent a good part of the afternoon watching videos on bread making techniques, only to nap through most of them. Truth be told, it wasn’t a terrible loss, because most of what I did watch, I already knew.
Around 3:00 PM I finally got up, did a bit of housekeeping, and then went out to get the mail. When I stepped outdoors, I realized the temperature had warmed up quite a bit from this morning, and I thought maybe I’d take a walk.
As I turned to head back inside, I was facing southeast, and the sky stopped me. It looked like there was a real possibility of a respectable sunset. So the walk went from a “maybe” to a definite.
I ended up walking a couple miles, stopping at several locations along the way to take photos. The sunset seemed to unfold slowly—like the unwrapping of another small present that the day decided to hand me.
This time of year, getting a respectable sunrise in the morning and an equally respectable sunset in the evening, all in the same day, is a rarity. But I certainly won’t complain about it.
When I got back home, I made myself a bowl of soup and toasted a couple slices of homemade bread for dinner. While I was making the toast, I realized I’m down to my last loaf again… so after dinner I mixed up another double batch of dough and spent the next couple hours getting it finished and into the refrigerator for a cold ferment overnight.
I’ll probably go downstairs and work on my blog for a bit, and then call it a day.
Some days the best you can do is keep living, and let the light find you when it can. I didn’t do much… but I did enough to make it through the day with my heart intact.
As I mentioned previously, last night while browsing for some info on grief and grieving, I came across something that moved me to the point of remembering it for the better part of the day today. When I went out for a brief walk this evening it came back to me ever so clearly:
January 6, 2026
It’s 7:50 AM on Tuesday, January 6, and when I peer out the back door all I can see is a wall of gray. Another one of those typical Western Pennsylvania winter days, where the weather will most likely not be your friend.
I woke up around 3:30 AM, then managed to get back to sleep. I didn’t climb out of bed until 7:00, which, looking at the big picture, counts as a relatively decent night’s rest for me.
I have a 10:30 AM appointment to get my car inspected. After that, I’m hoping to stop at a nearby Home Depot to check out some patio door options. The one I have now is starting to show some serious signs of wear and tear.
As I work on my second cup of coffee, I can’t help but notice the kitchen and dining room floors are definitely due for some attention. With all the cooking I’ve been doing lately, even though I try to keep up, it’s time. So that’ll be one of the first things I tackle this morning: vacuuming first, then a good steam clean should do the trick.
Tonight I finally sat down for the first time all day. Car inspection at 10:30, then the market, and I got caught up in sale tags the way you do when you see things you actually use. Unfortunately I never made it to Home Depot, but tomorrow is another day, perhaps after my CT Scan appointment.
The big turn of the day was sauerkraut and pork. I walked past it at first because it’s never been my favorite, but something pulled me back. Maybe it was Fran tapping my shoulder, especially with Thursday being our anniversary. Fifty-four years. That number still lands heavy and holy at the same time.
I got it into the roaster and the oven, then made soup to use up the vegetables that needed attention, helped along by a bone marrow chicken stock I picked up today. After that I worked on the bread I started last night.
All in all, I got a lot done , and now I’m going to try to sit here a while without tipping into sleep, then maybe add a little to the blog before the recliner wins and I wake up at some ridiculous hour.
And for the “don’t fall asleep immediately” part (without making it a whole production), I will set a timer for 12 minutes, sit upright with a glass of water nearby, and give myself permission to do nothing but breathe and decompress until it goes off. If I fall asleep anyway, I didn’t fail, I just needed it.
January 7, 2026
The Turnaround in the Aisle
As I mentioned yesterday, when I was at the market I walked past the pork and sauerkraut that was on sale, kept going, and then I did an about-face. It wasn’t because I suddenly became a fan of sauerkraut, I never was, and I’m still not, but because it felt like Fran was right there with me, nudging me the way she used to, as if she were saying, “We haven’t had this in a while. You should get it. You should make it.” So I did.
I bought what I needed, brought it home, and made it. And the strange part is… it actually turned out pretty well. Even to my particularly picky palate when it comes to sauerkraut, it was more than just tolerable, it was good. Not perfect, not my favorite meal in the world, but good enough that I caught myself thinking, Well, look at that… as if I’d pulled off something I never expected to enjoy. I don’t know how to explain it, but it felt like more than food. It felt like a small thread connecting the present back to what we were.
Every week since Fran’s passing, I’ve bought a bouquet of flowers and placed it in a small memorial on the hutch cabinet in our dining room. It’s become one of those quiet rituals that I don’t even question anymore, something steady, something I can do with my hands when everything else feels unsteady. Today I’m going to buy white roses, the same flowers she carried on the day we were married, and place them there in her memory. It’s a simple gesture, but it feels right.
Tomorrow would have been our 54th wedding anniversary, and I can’t pretend I’m handling it well. The truth is, this is tearing me apart. Sometimes it feels like I’m moving through the day underwater, everything muffled, heavy, and slow, and at this moment I don’t even know how to put it into proper words. I only know this: she is still with me in the smallest moments… in an aisle at a market, in my kitchen, and in the space on that hutch where flowers keep showing up, because love keeps insisting on being seen.
January 8, 2026 (Our Wedding Anniversary Day in 1972)
The Back Pew, With Your Rings in My Pocket
I went into the church today carrying you.
Not in a way that anyone else could see, not in a photograph held up or a story told out loud, but in the quietest, most literal way: your rings in my pocket. Your wedding ring. Your engagement ring. Your anniversary ring. Three small circles of metal that somehow still hold the weight of a whole life.
I kept my hand near them the way you keep your fingers near a light switch in a dark hallway, not because you’re afraid of the room, exactly, but because you need to know you can change something if the fear starts to rise. Grief has become that kind of hallway for me. Some days I can walk through it. Other days it feels like the walls lean in.
When I stepped inside from the cold, there were people at the door who looked at me and knew. They didn’t know why, but they knew something. The face gives it away, even when the mouth tries to stay polite. Someone greeted me kindly and wished me a good day. I nodded and managed something close to a thank you, and I remember thinking how strange it is that words can be so ordinary and still feel like a lifeline. A simple “good day” can sound like an act of faith when you’re not sure what a good day even means anymore.
I chose a seat near the back, close to the aisle, close to an exit. Not because I wanted to be far from God, but because I wanted to be close to air. I wanted a plan. If my chest tightened, if my eyes started to spill, if the underwater feeling came back, I needed to know I could step out without making my grief everyone else’s business. I needed the back pew today. The back pew is where you go when you’re trying to be brave and you’re not sure you can pull it off for very long.
And I have to tell you, Fran, walking into that church without you felt like walking into a room where our voices used to live. Even with people around, it felt like absence had taken a seat beside me.
Not long after, your brother Paul appeared and sat next to me. He didn’t waste time with small talk; he went straight to what mattered. He asked me to pray for his sister-in-law. He and his wife Patty had found her in her home a few days ago, and from all indications she had a stroke. She didn’t recognize them. Didn’t know who they were. They called an ambulance. She went to the hospital. He said she’s improving, but the kind of improving that still leaves you shaken, still leaves you staring at the ceiling at night. The kind that makes you realize how quickly a body can change the rules on you.
He told me he normally sits at the front and asked if I wanted to join him. I thanked him, but I stayed where I was. I needed the back. I needed the rings in my pocket. I needed you close in the only way I can have you close now.
Mass began. Then, through the same back door I’d used, a woman came in who looked like she had been living on the outside of life for a long time. I couldn’t say her age for sure, maybe in her forties, maybe younger, but hardship doesn’t ask permission before it adds years to a face. Her clothes were layered, soiled, tattered, the kind of layers people wear when winter isn’t a season, it’s a daily opponent. I could tell almost immediately she was homeless. Not as a judgment. Just as a fact written in fabric and posture and the way a person moves when they haven’t been allowed to feel safe anywhere for awhile.
She entered, then turned and left.
A few minutes later she returned. Left again. Returned again.
It went on and on, more times than I could keep track of. Each and every time she came back in, she dipped her hand into the holy water and blessed herself again and again, fifteen, twenty quick blessings each time, like she was trying to calm something inside her that would not settle. Like she was trying to scrub off fear. Like she was trying to convince herself she still belonged in a place like this.
She never sat. Not once. She stood at the back of the church to my left, hovering near the door. It struck me that she and I came in with different kinds of pain, but we were both positioned the same way, close to an exit. I chose it because I was grieving you. She chose it because she has learned that staying too long in any one place can be dangerous. But the body doesn’t always care why it’s braced to flee. The body only knows it needs the option.
And Fran… as I watched her, I kept thinking about you. About the way you used to walk into places and make them warmer without even trying. About how you always noticed people. You would have noticed her. You would have looked at her in a way that didn’t reduce her to a label. You would have seen the person first.
During Mass she glanced over at me a couple of times and smiled. Not a big smile. Not a performance. Just a quick, almost shy curve of the lips, like a human signal flare that said, I see you. Then she was back to moving in and out again, blessing herself again and again, standing, leaving, returning, like the doorway was the only place her nervous system could tolerate being.
She went out for Communion, but even that was hesitant. She approached, stopped, drifted back, then edged forward again, circling the center aisle like someone trying to decide whether grace is something meant for her or something she’s only allowed to witness from a distance. Eventually she stepped into line, moved toward the altar, and received.
Something happened in me then, Fran. I felt fortunate.
Not in a smug way. Not in a “look at me” way. More like an ache of gratitude that made me uncomfortable because it existed alongside sorrow. I felt fortunate that I have a home to go back to. Fortunate that I have people who care about me. Fortunate that I can walk into a church and sit in one place without wondering where I’ll sleep tonight.
Then I felt guilty for even calling it fortunate, because how can the world be arranged in such a way that those things aren’t just normal for everyone? How can someone become discarded? How does a person end up living in layers of cold and moving through a sanctuary like they’re afraid of being caught in it?
When Mass ended, your brother came back from the front and found me. Before we left, I asked him about the woman, if he knew her story, if he’d seen her before. He confirmed what I suspected: she’s homeless. She’s been around for a couple of years. She’s there in the mornings sometimes, looking for handouts. The church has tried to help her a number of times, but beyond that, there wasn’t much more to tell.
That’s the part that keeps playing in my mind now, like a song stuck on repeat.
Because I went into that church trying to hold onto you. Trying to keep my grief from swallowing me. Instead I found myself watching another person try to hold onto something, holy water, a doorway, a blessing repeated until it almost became a heartbeat.
So yes, maybe it was a sign.
Not a sign that everything will be okay. Not a sign that pain has an explanation. But a sign that my love for you still points outward. That even in the middle of losing you, I can still recognize another human being. That my heart is shattered, but it isn’t hardened.
Now, Fran, this is the prayer I have tonight. It’s not fancy. It’s not polished. It’s just the truest thing I can say:
Hold her. Hold her the way I wish I could still hold you. Warm her. Feed her. Protect her. Put decent people in her path. The right help. Real help, and if there is anything I can do, anything that is wise and safe and genuinely helpful, nudge me toward it.
And hold me too.Because I’m still learning how to live in a world where I carry your rings in my pocket instead of your hand in mine.
It’s 8:15 PM, and I woke from an accidental nap the way you surface from deep water, disoriented, heavy, and suddenly aware of the quiet. Earlier, when I returned home from Pittsburgh with Bob, the sky caught my eye. The clouds had that layered, unsettled look that sometimes hints at a memorable sunset, so I went out for a walk and let the evening lead me. I found a tree stump and sat there for nearly an hour, camera ready, watching the sun descend with slow patience. The dramatically intense color that I was anticipating finally arrived, and so did the stillness of the moment, sitting there alone, without you by my side.
Even the chill that crept in felt honest, winter reminding me what time of year it is, even on a day that flirted with sixty degrees. I couldn’t help think how this warm spell felt like an old echo, because on our wedding day in 1972, the high somehow reached an almost unbelievable 67.°
This was an anniversary day, January 8, the date Fran and I were married in 1972. I went to Mass at the Catholic church where we began our life together, carrying more than I could neatly name, love, grief, gratitude, and the ache of everything we did and everything we never got to do.
Later, my friend Bob took me into the Strip District, and we walked among markets and restaurants and the beautiful noise of people living their lives. We talked. We kept moving. I felt the steadying kindness of a friend who shows up on the days that can swallow a man.
Now I’m home again, where silence can be both sanctuary and storm. The memories return, precious, relentless, bringing comfort and pain in the same breath. I’m grateful for the day, grateful for Bob, grateful for a sky that gave me calm even without spectacle. I miss my beloved Fran, plain and deep, because love doesn’t leave when the person does.
Happy anniversary, Fran. I’m still here, still loving you.
January 9, 2026
6:28 AM — Friday, January 9, 2026
Last night was difficult, troubling in a way that lingers. Yesterday was Fran’s and my anniversary, and I did a lot of soul-searching. For whatever reason, I kept trying to find something, anything, to plug my mind for a while.
When I got home, it didn’t take long before I found my recliner and tried to unwind from the thoughts and activities I pushed myself through during the day. I fell asleep in the recliner, but only for a short while. When I woke up, the heaviness was still there, still talking with Fran the way I’ve been doing more and more lately. One of those one-way conversations. I caught myself asking her, How is it possible in this day and age that people can be homeless, discarded, cast aside, left to suffer, in a world so plentiful?
Since Fran’s passing, I’ve been enduring heartache every moment of every day. I’ll admit there are times, when I can keep myself busy doing something, anything when the ache isn’t quite as intense. But the quiet times are different. The moments when I finally sit to try and unwind, I only find myself winding up tighter. I start thinking about things I have absolutely no control over, trying to solve the problems of the world when I can barely solve my own.
The chance encounter I had yesterday at the church where Fran and I were married, the homeless woman, was incredibly troubling. And strange as it sounds, it continues to trouble me even now.
The irony of it all is hard to ignore. Yesterday, in a church that’s supposed to be a sanctuary, there were plenty of people there, and this poor soul, who seemed to be searching for something, maybe peace, maybe recognition, maybe a sense of security, seemed to be dismissed. Tossed aside. A casualty of an unfortunate life.
In the sermon, the priest said that in order to love God, we have to love our brothers and sisters, because if we can’t do that, we can’t possibly love God. That line has been echoing in my head.
As I’ve said many times, I don’t consider myself a religious person. But I do consider myself spiritual. As a child, and probably up through my teenage years, I attended church regularly. I participated in the Catholic youth organization and even served as president for a year. Then one day I came to the realization that it just wasn’t working for me. The pieces weren’t fitting together. It all somehow felt a bit phony.
Maybe that’s why I don’t attend services regularly anymore. Maybe, over the years, I’ve hardened in ways I don’t like, starting to believe people have to look out for themselves, that no one really cares, that no one is going to go out of their way to help. To me, that is truly unfortunate.
And yet, even as I write this, I know the tenderness in me didn’t disappear, it’s still here, raw and exposed, especially now. Maybe that’s part of what grief does: it widens the place where you feel things, even the things you can’t fix. Fran had a way of noticing people, of seeing them, without making a show of it. Maybe what’s bothering me most isn’t only what I witnessed, but what it asked of me. Not to solve the world's problems, but to refuse to look away. If I can’t do that, even in small moments, then what am I holding onto, other than my own sorrow?
If it was in my means I would certainly like to address , at least locally, this issue of homelessness, and I must say that last night, when I finally turned into bed, I laid there for quite a while thinking to myself there are people sleeping in the street, in gutters, in doorways, totally despicable conditions who are lonely, cold, frightened, and that’s just totally unacceptable. To be perfectly honest, I can’t even imagine how people endure such conditions, how do they maintain the resolve to continue on.
It’s just not right.
January 10, 2026
It’s 5:50 PM on Saturday, January 10, and I’m standing here at the back patio door looking at it with a bit of disdain, mostly because I haven’t accomplished much of anything today. I thought I was getting off to a decent start: woke up around 5 AM, went back to bed, and didn’t really get moving until close to 8. When I glanced outside, it was obvious this was going to be one of those blaughhhh, gray days. The only saving grace was the temperature, well above normal, which should’ve felt like a gift, but somehow it didn’t. My mood matched the sky and stayed there most of the day.
I had bread cold-fermenting in the refrigerator that needed baked off. The first loaf went in around 1:00 and came out beautifully.
The second went in at 1:45, and that’s where I made my mistake: I sat down in the recliner “just until the timer goes off.” Of course, I fell into a deep sleep and never heard it, at least not the first time. At some point I caught a smell in the room, not quite registering what it was… until it hit me like a bucket of cold water: Oh shit—there’s bread in the oven.
I got up fast, hoping it wasn’t ruined. The crust was several shades beyond chestnut brown and I honestly thought it was a total loss. My first instinct was to toss it, garbage, birds, anything. But I cut into it anyway. Even with a sharp serrated knife it felt like trying to slice through a turtle shell with a butter knife. And then, steam. The inside was alive, moist, and damn near perfect with a nice crumb. The outside, though… it was like I’d toasted the loaf and forgotten it for four or five cycles.
I made myself a bowl of soup, and somehow that became the fix. The soup gave the crust what it couldn’t give itself: moisture, softness, mercy. I ended up eating half the loaf with that bowl, and for a moment it felt like I’d salvaged more than just bread.
But the tiredness stayed. I’m not sure why, sleeping until 8 shouldn’t wipe me out like this, but I felt heavy all day. mLater, I went downstairs to do a little work at the desk and caught myself nodding off mid-search, nose dipping toward the desktop more than once. Eventually I came back upstairs, cleaned up, prepped for tomorrow’s coffee, then went back downstairs to the laundry room and got a load of laundry into the wash.
Now I’m back in the recliner with relaxing music, the TV on, and YouTube playing Naturescape, those impossibly beautiful places scattered around the world. It’s meant to soothe, but tonight it’s doing the opposite. All I can think about is how Fran and I used to talk about traveling to places like that, and how that’s not going to happen now.
At minimum, I’ll move the laundry to the dryer. After that, I honestly don’t know. Tonight feels like a quiet room with too much space in it.
January 11, 2026
Sunday arrived wrapped in fog and thin places.
I didn’t find my way to bed until around two in the morning, and when I woke at 5:30 it felt like I surfaced through layers, like the night had been running on more than one track. In a dream I was finishing the Black Forest cake for dinner, hands busy, mind focused, everything ordinary and purposeful… until, in an instant, I realized I was lying in bed. The kind of awakening that makes you stare at the clock and wonder, quietly, if you’re losing your footing, or simply brushing up against the strange edge where sleep and reality trade places.
And then there was Fran.
Earlier, and again in that in-between space where the mind is half tide and half shore, I heard her voice the way I used to, clear enough to turn my head toward it. “Tony… Tony… wake up.” I answered without thinking, the old reflex still alive in me: “OK, OK… give me a minute.” Comfort and ache braided together. Love has its own echoes, and grief doesn’t always arrive gently.
Still, the day asked to be lived, and I did my best to meet it.
Last night’s baking had gone beautifully, three small, proud seven-inch layers that rose like they meant it. Buttermilk in place of water, sour cream, an extra egg, and a whisper of espresso, small choices that felt like little anchors.
The cake layers were already baked and waiting, chilled and ready. I sliced, divided, and made a plan: one cake would become a four-layer centerpiece for the dinner, and the extra layer would become a smaller two-layer cake for home. I felt organized. Almost steady.
Then I opened the pantry...
I went looking for what I knew I had, cherry pie filling, cherry dessert topping, something, only to discover that what I’d been counting on was strawberry, not cherry. At that hour, close to 6 AM, it was a small dilemma that felt larger than it should have. Not a crisis, just one of those moments where you stand there, half-awake, and think, Really? This? Today? The solution was straightforward, wait it out until a nearby market opened at 7.
So I did what I could in the meantime, and on the way to the store, I made a stop that felt good.
Last Thursday, when Bob and I went down to Pittsburgh, I saw a Steelers T-shirt that I just had to buy, a belated birthday gift for my brother-in-law. He and his wife are true fans, the kind of people who will wear something like that with pride until it’s threadbare.
I left the house around 7:30, swung by his place, and dropped it off, knowing he’d probably be wearing it tomorrow for the playoff game.
From there, I did what I rarely do, I stopped at Burger King because I had a coupon. Sausage and egg croissant, potato tots, three French toast sticks, and a coffee… six bucks. Even calling it a bargain felt like saying it with a raised eyebrow. It filled the gap, but it didn’t feel like much for what it cost, another little modern day shrug of a moment.
Once I finally made my way through the market and got what I needed, I came home and got to work. The four-layer cake came together the way I’d pictured it, and it’s the one I took to my daughter’s. After that, I started in on the two-layer cake I kept behind, still good, still waiting, still not quite finished.
And then the day did what days sometimes do—it kept unfolding.
Upon completing the unexpected morning cherry topping run I proceeded to build the cake with care: whipped cream strengthened to hold its shape, cherries tucked into the layers, almonds pressed along the sides, dark chocolate shavings crowning the top. The part I worried about, getting it there safely, turned out to be simple: a box, a damp towel, and a steady drive. No slipping, no sliding, no trouble.
Dinner at my daughter and son-in-law’s was exactly what I needed it to be. We gathered to celebrate my son-in-laws fathers 74th birthday, his parents, his grandmother, my grandson, my daughter, my son-in-law, and me, sharing a meal, but more than that, sharing the easy warmth of conversation. The kind that reminds you you’re still connected to something living and good.
Now it’s 10 PM. I woke from what I thought would be a quick nap—four hours disappeared like a page turned without noticing. Smooth jazz fills the room. The house is quiet. Sleep may be a long shot tonight, but I’m here, moving around, breathing, thinking, still listening for meaning in the ordinary.
In the refrigerator, there’s still a second cake, iced but unfinished, waiting patiently for the rest of its story.
January 12, 2026
It’s been one of those winter Mondays where the day starts early and the momentum comes in fits and starts. I was up at 5:15 AM and out of bed by 5:30, hoping I might drift back off, but it didn’t happen. By 5:45 I had the coffee going and tried to ease myself into “another day,” only to get greeted by a small aggravation: the refrigerator water dispenser wouldn’t work. Not a great moment. I fussed with it for a few minutes and gave up, immediately remembering a similar issue from a year or two ago when a repairman found the feed line had frozen and blocked the flow. I started mentally preparing to pull the refrigerator out, clear space, and deal with it later, one of those chores you don’t want, but can’t ignore forever.
Somehow, the day improved in small ways. I managed to get the TV working again without it turning into a whole production, and the water dispenser more or less “fixed itself,” which felt like a minor mercy. Still, the evening reminded me why I shouldn’t test fate: after dinner I sat down “just for a few minutes” to catch the news, and predictably, I fell asleep for about an hour and a half. I woke up groggy when my daughter called around 7:00 PM to check in, ask what I’d been doing, and what plans I had for the rest of the night. While we were talking, Bob called, and I didn’t pick up, figuring I’d call him back after. Then he texted me, joking that I must be tailgating at the Steelers game. Yeah… no. There’s a snowball’s chance in hell I’d attend a pro football game even in perfect weather, let alone freeze my tail off for one.
So here I am at 8:54 PM, finally sitting down with the intention of doing something constructive, hoping the fog clears a bit, and even thinking ahead to food, because I’ve been craving a chicken salad recipe that isn’t the standard everyday version. Something different. Something with a little personality.
A few days ago I mentioned that I received an old photograph from Fran's cousin, who currently lives in Ohio. Ever since Fran's passing we had been in fairly consistent communication with one another. He is, I believe, eighty two years old his wife has MS, he is the primary caregiver, and the prognosis is not very good.
We often talk and text about Fran's side of the family and all of the memories we have, both good and bad.
As I was going through my text messages today I happen across that photo again and it moved me more than I could have possibly imagined.
I didn’t expect to be stopped in my tracks by a set of photographs, but that’s exactly what happened.
I proceeded to bring up a couple of pictures I still had on my phone of Fran and then viewed them along side the old photo of Fran's mother and several of her siblings. I don't know for sure but I would guess the old photo was taken in the 1940's.
The first image I was making a comparison with was Fran as a high school senior, a formal portrait, carefully posed, the kind of picture that used to live in frames on living-room shelves. But what you notice first isn’t the hairstyle or the year stamped invisibly into the black-and-white. It’s her expression: that open smile and the bright, attentive eyes that make you feel like the person in the photo is already fully present, already herself, even at such a tender age.
The second image fast-forwards through life. It’s something I made for her years ago as a Christmas gift, a photographic print with words I chose because they felt true. It shows her with the two grandkids we had at the time, holding them close, and somehow you can see the same girl from the senior portrait still there, not changed, exactly, just deepened. The smile is familiar, but it carries more history. The eyes are the same, but now they hold that “safe place” look, the kind of calm that little ones lean into without thinking. When I look at that one, I don’t just see a person in a picture. I see a role she grew into and wore naturally: caregiver, anchor, shelter from the storm.
And then there’s the third photograph, the one that arrived like a quiet thunderclap.
It’s Fran's mother, young, in a family grouping with brothers and sisters. She’s in the foreground, almost kneeling, leaning in toward the camera with that easy, unforced smile. In the first instant my brain didn’t file her under “mother” at all, it filed her under her daughter. Same structure in the face. Same lift at the corners of the mouth. Same look in the eyes, that unmistakable warmth that doesn’t need an introduction.
Fran and I were married for over fifty three years and dated almost two years before being married. Long enough that I would have sworn I knew the shape of her family resemblance, who she took after, who she didn’t, and yet I never saw it like this, never saw it so clearly, it felt undeniable. It’s strange how that works. How life can give you fifty plus years of familiarity, and then one old photograph comes along and turns a light on in a room you thought you already knew.
The three images together feel like a small lesson. We think of time as a straight line, a girl becomes a woman, a woman becomes a mother, a mother becomes a grandmother, but sometimes it’s more like a circle. A smile returns. A gaze repeats itself. A person shows up again in the face of someone you love, and suddenly the past doesn’t feel distant. It feels present, as if the family story is still being written in the same handwriting, just on a different page.
And for a moment, just a moment, the world feels stitched together in a way that’s both comforting and a little bittersweet. Because it reminds you how much carries forward… and how much you wish you could tell the people in those older pictures what their future would look like: warm arms, laughing children, a life that grew into exactly what that first smile promised.
After gazing at the photo's, and a few others I managed to locate fairly quickly, I was compelled to carry my thoughts a bit further, and wrote a letter to Fran:
Dearest Fran,
Today I got handed something I didn’t know I needed, and didn’t know I could handle so calmly until it was sitting right in front of me.
I received a photo of your mother, young, surrounded by brothers and sisters. She’s the one in the foreground, almost kneeling, leaning in toward the camera like she belonged there. And Fran… I swear to you, for a second my heart didn’t recognize it as your mother at all. It recognized it as you. Same light in the eyes. Same smile shape. Same soft kind of strength that doesn’t ask permission to be steady.
And it startled me.
Not because I didn’t know families carry their faces forward. We all know that in our heads. But this was different. This was like time folded in half and two eras touched. Like someone opened a door and for one second I could see a familiar soul standing in a stranger’s year.
You know what’s strange? All those years, nearly fifty-four married, plus the years before, and I never once saw that resemblance so clearly. I used to think your sister had the “family look.” I used to think I had it figured out. Then one old photograph shows up and rearranges my certainty in an instant. It made me realize how much we can live beside something and not truly see it until the right moment, the right light, the right angle.
It reminded me of you, too. How I’ll catch something, an expression, a tilt of the head, a certain look in the eyes, on a day when I’m just trying to get through the hours. It’s never dramatic. It’s always quiet. But it lands. And suddenly I’m holding two things at once: the ache of you not being here the way you used to be, and the comfort of you still showing up in the world in these small, almost-secret ways.
This photo did that. It made me feel connected to a line of people and years that existed long before I ever came along. It made me think about how a person doesn’t just appear out of nowhere, how they’re formed, and carried, and echoed. Like a song that keeps being played, not exactly the same each time, but unmistakable in its melody.
I wish I could sit with you right now, just you and me, no noise, no TV acting up, no appliances choosing Monday morning to make a point. I’d put the picture in your hands and watch your face while you took it in. I’d listen to what you’d say, the little observations you always had, the way you could make one small detail feel like a truth.
Mostly, I’d just like to hear your voice. That’s the honest part.
But since I can’t, I’m writing it to you instead, because you’re still the one I talk to when something moves me. You’re still the one I want beside me when a photo can stop time and make my heart do that quick, confused thing, like it doesn’t know whether to smile or cry.
I’m okay tonight. A little shaken, a little tender. But okay, and in a strange way, grateful, because for a moment the world felt stitched together, and I could see how love and family leave their fingerprints across generations.
I miss you, Fran.
Loving You Always, and All Ways
Tony
January 13, 2026
5:42 AM, first cup of coffee, and when I look out the back door it’s the same story again: a sky packed with clouds. It’s 29° outside, but it feels more like 18°, the kind of cold that makes you hesitate before you even touch the door handle.
Bob called last night and reminded me today is Barbara's birthday, so I’m going to finish the second cake I baked for Sunday’s family party and bring it over to celebrate with them. I’m also making Italian sausage with peppers, onions, and mushrooms, served on hard rolls from the Italian market on the way. It feels good to have a plan that involves bringing people together, especially in the middle of winter.
I didn’t get to bed until around 1:30 AM. Around midnight I printed a watercolor piece with the poem God’s Garden over it as a birthday gift for Barbra. After I printed it, it just didn’t feel complete without a frame, so I cut a mat, found a frame I had on hand, and finished it right then and there. I think she’ll appreciate it, especially because she’s such a talented watercolor artist.
Before bed I added a few things to my blog, including three photos of Fran and the picture her cousin recently sent, the one of Fran’s mother, when she was very young. The resemblance is almost unreal. Trying to describe that comparison cracked something open in me, and it took a while to settle myself back down. By the time I finally turned in, it was about 1:15. I fell asleep instantly… and then I was awake again at 4:45, wide-eyed, knowing I probably wasn’t going back under.
The forecast isn’t promising, heavy cloud cover again, high around 42°. I can handle 42° in January. It’s the endless gray that wears me down. These cloudy days feel like they press on everything, and I’m already carrying enough.
It’s 7:00 PM and I just finished up a batch of Sunseri-style “Legendary Dipping Peppers,” my own fridge version clone. Funny how that happened: when I went to the market this morning, they had every variety of pepper I needed. I wasn’t even planning to make them right away, but seeing everything in front of me felt like a little nudge, so I grabbed what I needed and decided tonight was the night.
This afternoon I went over to Bob and Barbara's. I brought her a birthday cake, and I also brought sweet Italian sausage with peppers, onions, and mushrooms so we could make hoagies for lunch. I got there around 12:45 and Bob and I waited until Barbra got home from an appointment. Once she was back, we put lunch together and settled in.
After lunch we had a piece of the Black Forest cake, similar to the one I made Sunday for my son-in-law’s father’s birthday. Bob and Barbara were genuinely thrilled with what I brought, and were so grateful in that way that reminds me how lucky I am to have them in my life.
And then they surprised me...
My birthday is at the end of the month (January 31), and they handed me a gift: an AeroGarden, a small hydroponic growing system that sits right on the kitchen counter. They have one, and I’ve commented more than once about what a great idea it is. Evidently they picked up on that, tucked it away, and turned it into something real.
It’s hard to put into words how thankful I am for friends like them, kind, considerate, and generous beyond belief. Days like today remind me that even when the skies are heavy and the season feels gray, there’s still warmth in the world, and sometimes it shows up in the simplest ways: a shared meal, a birthday cake, a surprise gift, and the comfort of being with people who care.
I’ve still got a couple things to tend to tonight before turning in, including the clothes that are still somehow not folded, and I’d like to add a bit more to my blog. I’m glad I finished those peppers before sitting down… because if I sit first, I know exactly what happens next: I’ll be asleep within minutes.
January 14, 2026
More to come...
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