On Grief and Grieving-March 2026 Continued

March 20, 2026

Spring, Even If Hidden

It’s the first morning of spring.  You wouldn’t know it by looking outside, the sky is sealed in gray, the sun still tucked somewhere beyond reach. It's 40°… feels like 34°. A day forecasted for clouds and rain.

But I’ve learned…spring doesn’t always announce itself. Sometimes it arrives quietly, like a memory…like a presence you can’t quite see, but somehow still feel.

I’ve been up since 5:30 AM, coffee cup number three warming my hands, jazz playing softly… just the way I like it.

As I stand at the patio doors, even without the sun, there’s still a sense of something beginning again. Maybe it’s in the air…or maybe it’s in the heart,

because even on a morning like this, I can’t help but feel that somewhere, just beyond the clouds…something beautiful is waiting to break through.

And somehow…it still feels like Fran is part of it.

“Somewhere beyond the clouds, the light is already there...

“Between What’s Ahead and What Remains”

This morning, as I do most days, I'm trying to map out what the hours ahead might hold.

There are cakes to be baked today, for my grandson’s birthday on Sunday, layers that will rise, cool, and rest…before becoming something made with love.

And then there are the frames.

Three large prints, quietly waiting on the coffee table, each one speaking a language I’ve come to know all too well.

Grief. Remembrance. The space that never quite fills back in.

They’ve been sitting there for days…and today feels like the right time to give them a place, to set them under glass and let them live where they can be seen… and honored.

I have others too, some of my own, pieces of a journey I never expected to take.

But if I can get these three done today…that will be enough. Because somehow, this day holds both, the sweetness of a grandson’s celebration…and the quiet presence of a love that never left.

And maybe that’s what life is now, not one or the other…but both, side by side.

Spring Finds Its Way In

At 7:05 this morning, just as I was settling into my thoughts, the light began to shift. Not dramatically, just enough to be noticed.

A soft glow at the horizon, pushing gently against the gray, and suddenly, the morning felt different.  As if spring, quiet, patient, and unannounced, had decided to make itself known. Not with bright skies or bold colors, but with a slow unveiling…a reminder that change doesn’t always arrive all at once.

“Not what I expected… but exactly what I needed...”

So I stand here, watching it unfold.

Because sometimes the most meaningful moments aren’t the ones we plan but the ones that quietly ask us to stay a little longer. Because moments like this always feel like more than just light breaking through clouds.

They feel like something reaching back.

A reminder…that even on the grayest mornings, there’s still something trying to come through.

And somehow, in the stillness of it all…it feels like I’m not standing here alone.

Between the Chill and the Warmth

I stepped outside to take a few photographs, drawn in by the way the light had begun to change. The air greeted me immediately, cool, refreshing…just enough to make me pause and take it in.

There’s something about that kind of morning air, it doesn’t just wake you up…it brings you into the moment.

I stood there quietly for a bit, watching the sky continue its slow transformation.

When I came back inside, I reached for my coffee, not just for the taste, but to warm my hands.

That simple contrast, the chill of the morning and the warmth of the cup,

felt like a reflection of everything this day holds. A little bit of what still lingers…and a little bit of what’s beginning.

And somehow, in that balance…it feels like everything is right where it needs to be.

Light Through the Doorway

This morning carries a quietness with it.  As I look through the house and out toward the patio doors, there’s a stillness that feels almost intentional, as if the day is taking its time unfolding.

“Somewhere between reflection and renewal.”

The light has begun to fill the space,softly reaching in…touching everything just enough to be noticed.

And yet, there’s something else there too. A gentle sense of reflection…a hint of something that lingers just beneath the surface.

Maybe it’s the first day of spring, and the way it stirs thoughts of what’s to come.

Or maybe it’s simply the way mornings like this have a way of bringing everything a little closer. Because as I stand here, in this quiet space between seasons…it doesn’t feel empty.

It feels… shared.

It’s 7:51 AM, and the show outside has all but taken its final bow. What began as a quiet suggestion of light slowly unfolded into something far greater than I ever expected. Not dramatic, not overwhelming… but deeply personal. Like turning the pages of a book you didn’t know you needed to read. Each moment revealed itself gently.

The sky stretched from deep, endless blue into soft gold, and the trees, bare and still, stood like quiet guardians of something sacred, and there it was again… that familiar space between the branches. That place I’ve come to recognize not just with my eyes, but with my heart.

Where She Still Meets Me...

The portal.

This morning, it felt different. Clearer. More defined. As if the absence of leaves allowed something else to come through more easily, something not seen, but deeply felt.

And in that space… I couldn’t help but feel her. Not in a way that demands explanation. Not in a way that needs to be understood.

Just… present.

The Gift of Staying...

Like she was standing just beyond the light, waiting for me to notice.

The sunrise didn’t rush. It didn’t need to. It unfolded in its own time, each moment inviting me to stay just a little longer.

And I did.

Until the light softened…until the brilliance faded…until the moment quietly slipped into memory. Then I turned back inside.  Coffee in hand, warmth returning to my fingers, I found myself standing at the table, fresh loaves resting in the morning light. The same sunlight that had just danced through the trees was now wrapping itself around something I had created with my own hands.

Outside… wonder. Inside… comfort.

And somewhere between the two, I found something I didn’t even know I was searching for. Not closure. Not answers. Just a quiet reminder…

That even after loss, even after all that’s changed, there are still mornings like this, waiting patiently to pull us in, to hold us there, and to give us something back.

Companion Piece — From Fran’s Perspective

“I Was There in the Light”

You didn’t imagine it.

I know you wonder sometimes…

standing there in the quiet,

watching the sky shift from dark to light,

feeling something you can’t quite explain.

But I was there.

Not in a way your eyes could fully hold,

not in a way the world would understand,

but in the way you felt it.

That space between the branches…

you’ve come to call it a portal.

I smile at that.

Because to you, it is.

To me… it’s simply where I can reach you,

without the noise of everything else.

This morning, you noticed.

You slowed down just enough,

stayed just long enough,

and let the moment come to you,

instead of rushing past it.

That’s where I meet you now,

in those in-between spaces.

In the quiet before the day begins.

In the stillness you used to overlook.

In the light that doesn’t demand attention,

but waits for you to feel it.

I saw you standing there,

coffee waiting inside,

hands a little cold, heart a little open.

And I was right there with you.

Not ahead of you. Not behind you.

With you.

When you turned back inside,

when the warmth returned to your hands,

when the light followed you in,

and settled on the bread you made…

That was me too.

Not the bread.

Not the light.

But the feeling.

The quiet knowing

that something good had just happened,

even if you couldn’t fully explain why.

You’re learning how to live in both worlds now.

The one you can see…and the one you can feel.

And I want you to know, you’re doing beautifully.

So the next time the sky pulls you in like that…stay.

Stay a little longer.

Because I’ll be there.

Just like I was this morning.

Always just beyond the light…

and somehow, still right beside you.

I told you, you would miss me

when I was gone!

March 21, 2026

Morning Brew & Reflections — When the Music Finds You

It’s 6:43 AM.

The day hasn’t quite arrived yet. I’ve stepped out of the shower, made my way into the kitchen, and wrapped my hands around a warm cup of coffee, standing somewhere between yesterday and whatever today is going to become.

Outside, there’s nothing. No light. No sky. No sense of what’s waiting beyond the glass. Only darkness… and the quiet hum of a house not fully awake.

The forecast says the sun may find its way through later this afternoon.

But this morning… it’s something else that found its way in.

The music.

It started softly, almost unnoticed, until it wasn’t. “Stop, Look, Listen (To Your Heart)”And then… “I’ll Remember You.” Not songs I would have chosen. Not songs I was prepared for. But songs that somehow knew exactly where to go.

Before the first sip of coffee… before a single thought could settle… they reached in and opened something I hadn’t planned on feeling today.

And just like that, the room was no longer quiet.

It was full.

Full of memories. Full of moments. Full of everything that never really leaves… but waits patiently to be remembered. It’s a powerful thing, how music changes over time. The songs don’t change.

We do.

They gather meaning as we move through life, collecting pieces of us along the way… until one day, without warning, they give it all back.

All at once.

Last night, I could feel it building. Sitting there after I turned off the computer, my thoughts refused to settle. This memoir I’ve started, it’s opened a door I can’t seem to close, and maybe I’m not supposed to. Because what came through that door wasn’t organized… it wasn’t gentle… it wasn’t patient.

It was everything.

A lifetime of moments rushing forward like water finally released.

And for a while, I wasn’t sure whether I was remembering… or simply trying to stay afloat. This morning feels like the echo of that. A quiet after the storm… but not quite calm.

Just… full.

As I stand here now, holding onto this cup of coffee like something steady, I realize something I didn’t expect. There’s nothing I can do to change what’s already been. Nothing to rewrite. Nothing to redo. But somehow… that doesn’t make it meaningless. If anything, it makes it matter more. Because the only place those moments still live…is here. In the music. In the memories. In mornings like this

.

So I won’t rush this one.

I won’t force the day to begin before it’s ready. I’ll stand here a little longer…wait for the light…and when it comes, even if it’s only a whisper through the clouds, I’ll take it as it is. Because maybe that’s all any of us can really do.

Hold on to what was…and still find a way to step gently into what comes next.

“Wait for the light… you know I’ll meet you there.”

The Trees That Stayed

It’s 7:44 AM.

As I sit here peering through the doorway, searching for some small sign of the sun, I find myself drawn not to the sky… but to the landscape. To how it has changed. To how it has stayed the same. To how time has quietly reshaped everything I see.

We watched them grow… never realizing how much of our lives would grow with them..

In the photograph, to the left side of the deck, just behind the large spruce tree , there’s a large oak tree. But what’s remarkable about that tree isn’t just what it is now… it’s what it once wasn’t.

When this house was built in 1984, that oak tree didn’t exist. Not even a trace of it.

In its place stood several sassafras trees, all of which are now gone, taken one by one years ago by a blight that slowly erased them from the property.

I remember one spring morning in particular. I woke up, looked outside, and saw that one of those sassafras trees, about twenty feet tall, had finally given way after a stretch of heavy winds. It was lying on its side, stretched out across the ground like it had simply decided it was done. I turned to Fran and said, “Well, I guess that’s the last of it. I’ll have to go out, cut it up, and get it removed.”

She laughed.

“Yeah, Tony… put that on your list of things to do. We’ll see how long it takes you to get to it.”

I took that as a challenge.

Not long after, I was out in the shed grabbing the chainsaw, and before the morning was over, that tree was gone. But in the process of clearing it… I noticed something. A tiny oak seedling. Just barely pushing up from the ground near where the sassafras roots had been.

I remember standing there, looking at it, thinking:

Do I cut this off too… or do I give it a chance?

I gave it a chance.

And now… that “chance” stands forty to fifty feet tall, with a full canopy in the summer, feeding deer that pass through daily, stripping leaves, leaving their quiet evidence behind, and entertaining a small army of squirrels who race through its branches and scatter across the road with what I can only describe as insatiable determination.

Fran and I used to sit on the deck and laugh about that tree. That something so small… so easy to overlook… had become something so strong, so full of life, so present.

And then there’s the spruce.

Off to the right of the oak tree in the background, near the shed, another tree that carries its own story. When the house was first built, that tree wasn’t there either. I remember a spring morning, out cutting grass, when a pickup truck rolled by. In the back were three young boys and an adult. One of the boys called out:

“Hey mister! You wanna buy a tree?”

I smiled and asked, “What kind of tree?”

“Spruce trees, Boy Scouts. Five dollars.”

I handed him ten and told him to keep the change, maybe help someone else get one. That tree sat in its container for a couple of years, and Fran… she didn’t let me forget it.

“When are you going to plant that tree? If you’re not going to plant it, get rid of it.”

Another challenge.

“Where do you want it?” I asked.

“I don’t care. Just plant it before it dies.”

So I did. Right in front of the shed I had built not long before. For years, it barely grew, and then… it took off. A foot a year, maybe more, reaching upward, filling out, becoming something far bigger than I ever expected when I handed that boy ten dollars.

At Christmas, I used to cover it in lights. Thousands of them. The last time I remember, there were over 2,000 lights wrapped around its branches. Some of them, I’m sure, are still there… woven into its limbs like quiet remnants of those seasons.

These days, the tree isn’t what it once was. The backside, the part you don’t often see, is thinning. Branches drying out. Needles falling.

Fran told me more than once: “You really need to take that tree down. It’s too big. It’s dying.” But I never quite got around to it, and now… it’s still there.

Still standing.

Still holding.

Still home to the birds we used to watch together from the porch, birds that return year after year, building nests, filling the branches with movement and sound, and every time I think about taking it down… I hesitate. Because it’s no longer just a tree. It’s a place where time gathered. Where memories settled. Where life, ours, and everything around us, unfolded quietly, season after season.

Maybe this will be the year I take it down. Maybe I’ll do it before the birds return.

But standing here now… looking out at it…I’m not so sure. Because some things, even as they fade…still feel like they’re holding on for a reason, and maybe…

so am I.

Even on mornings like this… the light finds a way through...

The sky this morning feels heavy. Thick clouds… dark, almost menacing at first glance. Not the kind of sunrise I would have hoped for. and yet…there it is. Just the slightest hint of light breaking through. Nothing dramatic. Nothing bold.

But enough.

Enough to remind me that even when it doesn’t look promising… something is still working its way through. Maybe not on my schedule. Maybe not in the way I expected.

But still…finding a way.

“Just give it a little time… it will come.”