On Grief and Grieving July 2026 Continued

July 10, 2026 (One year after the day everything changed)

6:21 AM 

Another gray curtain has been drawn across the morning sky. The temperature stands at 71 degrees with the humidity hovering at 93 percent as a gentle southwest breeze of about six miles per hour stirs the heavy air. The weather service has issued a flood watch, and it appears another round of rain is waiting in the wings.

Unfortunately, the morning also brought yet another malfunction with my medical equipment. After weeks of trying to get answers, being told simply to make another appointment,one that may not happen for months, is becoming increasingly discouraging. Some problems simply don't fit conveniently into a scheduling calendar.

For now, I'll do what I can. Before the rain returns, I'll head out with the squeegee, dry the table and chairs, and hopefully steal a few peaceful moments on the deck. If the weather chases me indoors, the wedding soup will finally begin its slow simmer, and I'll prepare the chicken for frying later today. Sometimes, when so much feels beyond my control, tending to a meal is one small thing that still can be.

6:51 AM 

After a brief cleanup with the squeegee, I finally settled into my chair on the deck to begin another morning watch.

The sky couldn't seem to make up its mind. One moment thick gray clouds concealed nearly everything,

and the next they drifted apart just enough to allow the morning sun to paint the eastern horizon with soft gold and pale blue. Every few seconds the landscape was transformed by changing light.

Aside from the songs of the birds and the smooth jazz drifting from the kitchen, the morning has been remarkably quiet.

Today marks one year since Fran's passing.

It hardly seems possible that an entire year has slipped by. At the same time, it feels as though I've experienced a lifetime of emotions during those twelve months. There have been moments of gratitude, moments of laughter, countless memories, and more tears than I ever imagined possible.

This evening my daughter has arranged for our family to gather at one of the Italian restaurants Fran loved so much. We shared many wonderful meals there over the years, and tonight we'll gather again, not because the sadness has disappeared, but because the love that brought us there in the first place never has.

For now, though, I simply sit quietly on the deck, watching the sunrise fight its way through the clouds. As the light changes from one moment to the next, I can't help but feel another wave of emotion beginning to rise. Perhaps that's fitting. Love, much like the morning sky, never remains exactly the same. It changes with time, yet somehow it is always there.

7:05 AM 

As the minutes pass, so does the heaviness that first covered the morning sky. Patches of blue continue to widen overhead while the eastern horizon grows brighter by the moment. For now, at least, the rain has chosen to wait, allowing me the gift of a little more time on the deck.

I continue trying to write my way through the emotions that have gathered on this difficult anniversary. One year has passed since Fran left this world, and although the calendar insists that time has moved forward, my heart still finds itself revisiting so many moments we shared together.

Writing has become my way of finding steady ground. With every sentence, I seem to regain just enough balance to keep moving forward. The sorrow hasn't disappeared, nor should it, but it no longer stands alone. It now shares its place with gratitude, remembrance, and a love that has proven itself capable of outlasting time itself.

This morning, the sky reminds me that even after the darkest cloud cover, light rarely arrives all at once. It comes quietly, a little at a time, until almost without realizing it, the landscape has changed.

7:10 AM 

A flash of brilliant red caught my eye as I scanned the garden. A cardinal had landed briefly on one of the trellises. By the time I reached for my camera and found an opening through the trees, he had already flown away. I never managed to capture the photograph.

As I sat back down, I realized that the fleeting visit somehow echoed the emotions of this morning. Not because I failed to appreciate what I had, but because beautiful moments have a way of passing more quickly than we ever expect. We always imagine there will be one more sunrise, one more dinner together, one more conversation, one more chance to say, "I love you."

Life rarely tells us when we're witnessing something for the last time.

The cardinal may have escaped my camera, but not my memory. And perhaps that's enough.

7:40 AM 

My morning watch continued with yet another unexpected visitor. Far beyond the garden, where the open field meets the tree line perhaps three hundred yards away or more, I noticed movement. At first it was little more than a dark shape emerging from the woods, but something about it caught my attention. After raising my phone and zooming in, my suspicion was confirmed. A lone wild turkey had quietly stepped from the shelter of the trees into the field, beginning its morning as I continued mine.

It seemed fitting somehow. Earlier, a cardinal appeared only briefly before disappearing before I could photograph him. Now another creature quietly entered the scene, reminding me once again that nature has a way of offering small moments of wonder when we least expect them.

On a day filled with memories and emotion, those simple interruptions are welcome. They don't erase the sadness, nor should they. They simply remind me that while I carry the past with me, the world continues to unfold one quiet moment at a time.

Just before 8:00 AM 

The breeze that only moments ago drifted steadily from the southwest has nearly surrendered to complete stillness. I first noticed it not by looking at the trees in the distance, but by watching the spiked plant standing proudly in the center of the large planter on the deck. Its long, delicate leaves usually sway and flutter with even the slightest breath of air, almost serving as my own natural weather vane. Now they stand almost perfectly still, interrupted only occasionally by the faintest ripple before returning once again to complete silence.

The sky, which only a short while ago hinted at brighter possibilities, has begun to lose some of its optimism. The patches of blue are slowly giving way to a familiar blanket of gray. It isn't raining, at least not yet, but the atmosphere carries that quiet expectancy, as though nature is holding its breath before the next act begins.

I retreated briefly into the kitchen to top off my coffee cup before returning to my seat on the deck. The morning watch continues.

7:53 AM

The quiet solitude that had settled over the morning has gently given way to a different kind of silence. The breeze has all but disappeared, and with it the rustling of leaves. In its place comes the rhythmic hammering of a woodpecker somewhere off in the distance, tirelessly working away at a tree hidden from my view. Every few moments, the steady percussion is answered by the soft, familiar coos of a pair of mourning doves nearby.

Together they form nature's own morning symphony, one providing the percussion, the other the melody. There are no automobiles, no construction equipment, no human voices to interrupt them. Just the sounds of another summer morning unfolding at its own unhurried pace.

On a day filled with remembrance, I find comfort in these simple things. The world has not paused because of my sorrow, nor has it forgotten. It simply continues, one birdsong at a time, inviting me to sit quietly and become part of it once again.

Coffee cup refreshed, eyes fixed once more on the ever-changing sky, the watch

continues.

8:09 AM 

Almost precisely as the sun reached the point on the horizon where it would normally clear the tree line nearest my seat, it made a determined attempt to break through the heavy cloud cover. The effort was brief and, at least for the moment, unsuccessful. Still, I found myself encouraged. It was a reminder that even when hidden from view, the sun never simply gives up.

Its presence was evident in the soft glow spreading across the clouds and the renewed color it brought to the hillside and garden below. Sometimes hope doesn't arrive as a brilliant sunrise; sometimes it comes as nothing more than a quiet attempt, and today, that was enough.

2:37 PM

I must say, it's been quite a busy day.

Earlier this morning, just as I started thinking about finishing up the wedding soup, the comfortable weather outside persuaded me to postpone my plans for a while longer. The deck was simply too inviting to leave.

At around 8:30 AM, my old friend, Tom Turkey, made another appearance. He cautiously poked his head out from the woods before making his way along the tree line toward the parking lot in front of the school behind our house. Considering he was probably over 400 yards away, I didn't have great expectations for the photographs.

Still, I fired off a series of shots, hoping for the best. To my surprise, I managed to capture one frame just as he lunged forward with his wings spread. Given the distance, I considered that one a small victory.

Shortly afterward, Fran's cousin Josephine called from New Jersey. She and her husband have owned a summer home in Myrtle Beach for several years, and they recently sold their New Jersey home to make South Carolina their permanent residence.

Then she shared some news that just about knocked me out of my socks.

Fran's cousin Frank, who stayed with me after his wife passed away in February and visited again just a few weeks ago, apparently collapsed while attending a fair in Ohio on the Fourth of July. He fell onto the concrete and suffered a severe back injury. From everything she told me, he's in pretty bad shape. He underwent major surgery and now has pins and screws stabilizing his spine. He's being transferred to a rehabilitation facility near his son's home, but it's over an hour from where Frank lives. Since he certainly can't return home alone, Josie believes he may ultimately move into an assisted living facility and sell the home he and his wife shared together.

Whatever happens, I don't expect I'll be seeing him anytime soon.

Not long after that conversation, Fran's cousin James called from Florida, and we spent another forty-five minutes or so catching up.

By about 10:30 AM, the weather began changing quickly. The wind steadily increased, darker clouds started rolling in, and before long the umbrella in the middle of the deck table was doing its best Mary Poppins imitation once again.

That was my cue.

I lowered the umbrella, tucked the chair cushion safely into the storage bin, and headed indoors to finally finish the wedding soup.

First came the meatballs.

I combined equal parts ground beef, ground pork, and ground veal, then remembered I still had the chicken meat I had carefully picked from the bones after making the bone broth. I ran that through the food processor and added it to the mixture as well.

Into the bowl went gluten-free breadcrumbs, freshly grated Parmesan cheese, Italian seasoning, garlic, an egg, and the rest of the seasonings before everything was gently mixed together.

Soon an entire baking sheet was filled with neat little meatballs, each about three-quarters of an inch in diameter.

Into the oven they went until lightly browned before being added to the waiting broth.

Remembering what happened during Fran's birthday dinner on June 27, the day I forgot to add the pasta. I intentionally cooked the tiny pasta separately. This time I let it go just beyond al dente so it would remain pleasantly tender once reheated in individual bowls.

There was another important reason for keeping it separate.

Since my son-in-law must follow a strict gluten-free diet, I wanted the soup itself to remain completely gluten-free so he could enjoy it as well. The pasta can simply be added to individual servings for everyone else, while he can enjoy the broth, meatballs, and spinach without concern.

Once the pasta was drained and stored away, I added a generous amount of fresh spinach to the simmering broth, allowing it to cook only long enough to wilt.

Looking into the pot as those bright green leaves settled among the tiny meatballs, I couldn't help but smile. It looked exactly as wedding soup should.

Now I'm left with a sink full of dishes waiting patiently for my attention before I get ready for dinner this evening.

Tonight, my daughter and son-in-law, along with my brother-in-law and sister-in-law, will gather to remember Fran on the first anniversary of her passing.

I'm certain it will be an emotional evening.

Yet as I stood over that pot of soup this afternoon, I realized something.

For years, Fran and I made meals together for the people we loved. Today, although she wasn't standing beside me, I found myself preparing one of our family's favorite soups in exactly the same spirit, with love, with care, and with the hope that it might bring a little comfort to those who share it.

Perhaps that's one way love continues.

Even after someone is gone, it still finds ways to nourish those who remain.

9:05 PM

I just finished cleaning up a few dishes from today and prepared tomorrow morning's coffee, as has become my nightly ritual.

We returned home at about 7:30 PM after having dinner with my daughter, her husband, my grandson, and my brother-in-law and sister-in-law.

We enjoyed a wonderful meal together at a nearby Italian restaurant, one that Fran always loved because one of their specialties was homemade pasta. That was almost always what she ordered.

It felt strange sitting there without her.

There was an unmistakable emptiness that lingered throughout the evening. More than once I found myself feeling as though I simply didn't belong there without her sitting across the table. Everyone else seemed to be doing reasonably well, at least from what I could tell, but I can't speak for what they may have been feeling inside. I only know what I was feeling.

Today brought another round of convincing rainfall, and even after it ended the skies remained mostly cloudy with patches of fog drifting in from time to time. The weather certainly wasn't unpleasant, although the humidity was far more than this old body enjoys.

Then, on the drive home, something unexpected happened.

The sky slowly began to brighten, and stretching across the distance before us was a beautiful rainbow.

It was a pleasant surprise.

Was it simply sunlight finding the right angle after the rain? Of course it was.

Was it also a quiet reminder that beauty can still emerge after a storm? Perhaps.

Whether it was a message from above, or simply nature doing what nature has always done, is left to each of us to interpret in our own way. Whatever the explanation, it brought a smile to my face at a moment when I needed one.

I'll be heading downstairs now to the family room office to finish today's blog entries. Once that's done, I'll call it a day.

It has been a rather emotional one.

But it was a day nonetheless.

A day filled with memories, family, friendship, good food, comforting soup, unexpected news, summer rain, and finally... a rainbow.

As difficult as today has been, I'm grateful I didn't have to walk through it alone.

Tomorrow will bring another sunrise, and if the old haymaker has anything to say about it, I'll be out on the deck once again, coffee cup in hand, waiting to see what stories the morning has to tell.

As a final thought to this most difficult day:

One Year Later

Today marks one full year since the woman I loved took her final breath.

A year.

Three hundred sixty-five days.

It seems impossible that so much time has passed, because there hasn't been a single day, not one, when Fran hasn't occupied my thoughts.

She is still the first person I think of when something beautiful happens.

She's still the person I want to tell when I discover a new recipe, harvest the first tomato from the garden, capture a photograph that makes me smile, or watch another spectacular sunrise from the deck.

For fifty-three years we built a life together.

Not a perfect life.

Not an easy life.

But a beautiful one.

We raised a family.

We celebrated birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, graduations, weddings, and the ordinary days that ultimately became the fabric of our lives.

We argued occasionally, laughed constantly, and learned that love isn't measured by grand gestures nearly as much as it is by thousands upon thousands of ordinary moments, shared between two people who simply choose each other every single day.

When Fran became ill, our dreams began changing.

Eventually they became smaller.

Instead of talking about years ahead, we talked about getting through another month.

Another week.

Another day.

When she finally slipped away, part of me left with her.

I honestly wasn't sure I could continue.

Yet somehow...

Morning after morning...

The sun continued to rise.

I found myself sitting on the deck, coffee cup in hand, watching what I eventually began calling the old haymaker make his daily climb into the sky.

At first I was simply watching the sunrise.

Then I realized something.

The sunrise was watching over me.

The deer continued walking through the field.

The wild turkeys appeared as though on cue.

The cardinals sang.

The squirrels entertained me with their endless antics.

The garden demanded watering.

The tomatoes ripened.

The zucchini multiplied faster than any reasonable person could ever consume.

Life, despite my wishes at times, refused to stop.

And slowly I learned something.

Continuing to live wasn't leaving Fran behind.

It was carrying her forward.

Every pot of wedding soup I made...

Every loaf of bread...

Every tray of eggplant Parmesan...

Every meal delivered to family or friends...

Every photograph...

Every sunrise...

Every word I wrote...

She was there.

Not physically.

But undeniably.

Love has a remarkable way of refusing to disappear.

Today, as I sit alone in this house once again, I glance down at my left hand.

The wedding band is still there.

Some might wonder why.

After all, the vows say, "Till death do us part."

Death came.

Death did its work.

It took away the woman I could hold.

But it never touched the love we built together.

This simple ring no longer symbolizes a marriage that exists only in this world.

It symbolizes gratitude.

Devotion.

Fifty-three extraordinary years.

It reminds me every single day that I was fortunate enough to spend my life beside the woman who became my wife, my partner, my best friend, my confidante, the mother of our children, grandmother to our grandchildren, and the love of my life.

I don't wear it because I cannot let go.

I wear it because there are some things too precious to put away in a drawer.

Will the pain ever completely disappear?

I don't think so.

I've learned that grief isn't something you overcome.

It's something you learn to carry.

Some days it's light enough to barely notice.

Other days it weighs more than you think you can bear.

But I've also learned something equally important.

Love doesn't end when life does..

It simply changes its address.

So tonight, one year later, I don't say goodbye again.

I already did that.

Instead I simply whisper what I've been saying every day for the past year.

Thank you.

Thank you for every laugh.

Every road trip.

Every family gathering.

Every Christmas.

Every ordinary supper around our kitchen table.

Every dream we shared.

Every challenge we faced together.

Every sunrise we watched.

Every memory you've left me.

I miss you beyond words.

I always will.

And tomorrow morning, when the old haymaker climbs above the horizon once again, I'll carry my coffee out to the deck.

I'll look toward the trees.

I'll think of you.

Just as I have every single day for the past year.

Because although death changed the way our story is written...

It never brought the story of our love to an end.

Until we meet again, my love.

I'll keep watching the sunrise for both of us.