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On Grief and Grieving - November 2025
- kresicki
- 4 days ago
- 14 min read
Updated: 25 minutes ago
November 1, 2025
Saturday Morning Reflections — November 1
It’s currently 11:45 AM on this cool Saturday morning, the first day of November. The house has been alive with purpose since early dawn, the quiet hum of the oven, the scent of pastry, the rhythm of a wooden spoon stirring soup. It’s been a busy morning, but one filled with meaning.
On the counter, trays of delicate lady locks rest in neat rows — golden, flaky, and brushed with a gentle shimmer of pumpkin pie spice sugar. They remind me of Fran, and of the woman who used to bake dozens upon dozens of cookies each holiday season. I prepared them the way Fran always did, then gave them my own small twist, a touch of autumn warmth folded into a memory of love and tradition. They’ll be filled later with pumpkin spice cream and shared at Neal and Clay’s gathering tonight.
Meanwhile, a pot of soup simmers on the stove, rich with vegetables, tortellini, and the scent of herbs rising through the kitchen. It’s bound for my sister-in-law, who called a few nights ago to say how much she’d enjoyed the last batch I made. There’s something special about making food for those we care about, a kind of language that doesn’t need words.
Tomorrow, I’ll likely bake a loaf of crusty Italian bread to go along with the soup and lasagna rolls I’ll be taking to her. For now, there’s still plenty to do before my 12:45 sonogram appointment and the evening’s gathering. Whatever gets done will be enough, what doesn’t can wait.
This morning began with the sunrise, a sky brushed with rose and gold, clouds parting slowly to let the light through. Standing there in the chill of early November, I felt a quiet message in that light, a reminder that beauty persists, that each new day offers its own grace.
The kitchen sign above the counter says, “This kitchen is seasoned with love.” And today, that feels especially true, in every pastry, every pot of soup, and every memory stirred gently back to life.
Saturday Evening Reflections — November 1
It’s pushing 9:30 PM on this cool Saturday night. I just returned home from Neal and Clay’s house, where an impromptu bonfire gathered friends and neighbors together beneath a crisp November sky. I was a bit hesitant to go at first, the temperature has dropped quite a bit, and truth be told, I’m not much for the cold anymore. Probably not even for “cool.”
The afternoon was spent preparing desserts for the evening, apple pie egg-rolls, and two kinds of lady locks: the classic version with cream filling, and my new twist, rolled in pumpkin spice sugar and filled with pumpkin spice cream. When Clay told everyone I’d made the desserts, there were a few raised eyebrows of disbelief, until I assured them I had photos to prove it. The laughter that followed was warm and good-natured, and everything turned out as delicious as I’d hoped.
I met several new faces tonight, people who, surprisingly, have been my neighbors for years. It was nice to connect, to share food and stories by the fire’s glow. There was something grounding about it all, simple conversation, good food, and the shared comfort of warmth against the chill.
While having a conversation with one of the younger people in attendance, that person said to me, "you're pretty cool for an old guy." I replied, "under normal circumstances I would take that as a compliment, but right now I'm far beyond cool, I'm freaking freezing. With that I bid you all a good night!"
While I was there, my daughter called, thinking I’d already returned home. She sounded surprised that I was still out enjoying the evening. I called her once I got back to let her know I have extra lady locks and apple pie egg-rolls set aside for her, along with some of the soup I made earlier in the day.
Now that I’m home and thawing out, I think a bowl of that soup will be just the thing to bring back a little warmth, both to the body and to the spirit. It’s been a full day, one of effort, connection, and quiet gratitude.
November 2, 2025
Morning Reflection — Sunday, November 2, 2025
The Language of Pairs
It was around 7:00 this morning when the day began to stir. I’d poured my first cup of coffee and stepped into the kitchen, still half wrapped in the quiet of early morning. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught motion on the porch, at first, I thought it was the chipmunk that sometimes darts through the yard, but that seemed unlikely given the porch is six feet off the ground.
Looking closer, I realized it was a cardinal, then a second one appeared, a bright red male and his softer-hued companion. They hopped from the table to the chair, to the porch floor and back again, flitting and pausing as if exploring this unfamiliar space. I’ve often seen cardinals in the yard, but never this close, never on the porch itself. The air was 38°, crisp but not biting, dry enough that the boards and furniture were free of dew. Everything felt clear and gently alive, a peaceful start to the day.
Not long after, as I looked out toward the back field, I saw a large deer grazing in the open space behind the house. Then, further off, another, moving slowly, quietly, feeding in the same stillness. They were too far to tell whether they were doe, fawn, or perhaps a pair, but the sight was calm and deeply soothing.
It struck me then, two cardinals, two deer, pairs of creatures crossing my morning within the span of an hour. I couldn’t help but wonder if there was meaning in that, a message of sorts, or perhaps just the world showing me something I needed to notice. Then I realized: for most of my life, I was part of a pair too, two souls walking the same path, sharing the same days. Now, though not in the same way, that bond remains.
Maybe these pairs were simply reminders, not of what is gone, but of what endures. Love changes shape, but it does not disappear. It lingers in the small quiet places, in the morning light, in the gentle companionship of the living world.
Evening Reflection — Sunday, November 2, 2025
The Weight of Early Darkness
It turns out I was a day off this morning, I truly thought it was Saturday. Perhaps it was the time change, or perhaps just the blur of days lately. They seem to flow into one another now, less distinct, harder to keep track of. Maybe that’s something that comes with age, though it’s still a little unsettling to admit.
Around 9:30, my oldest grandson called, something he’s done regularly for quite some time now. He’s twenty-one, busy with work and his own life, and yet he still takes the time to check in on me. It always warms me to hear his voice and to know that he thinks to call. That kind of thoughtfulness isn’t common among people his age, and I appreciate it deeply every time the phone rings.
After my morning coffee, I got right to work. I baked three loaves of bread and made a large pan of halushski, an old Eastern European favorite that both Fran and I grew up with. Fried cabbage and onions seasoned just right, mixed today with gnocchi instead of noodles. The smell filled the house and carried me back to childhood kitchens long past.
Around 11:00, my son-in-law appeared at the back porch door, saying he’d come to cut the grass. These days that’s a kindness I don’t take lightly, it’s getting harder for me to do it myself. After he left, I packaged up some food for him and my daughter: soup, halushski, pumpkin spice lady locks, apple pie egg rolls,and a loaf of the fresh bread.
Later, I did the same for my sister-in-law, this time adding some of the lasagna rotini and homemade spaghetti I’d made earlier in the week. I took everything over to her house around 3:00, and she was deeply appreciative. We sat and talked for a while, and of course Fran came up in the conversation.
That’s when she left the room and returned with a small children’s book, one Fran had given her years ago. It was about twenty-five or thirty pages long, and Fran had written little notes on every page, connecting the story to moments from their childhood. She began reading a few aloud, and before long, we were both in tears. It was one of those moments that hurt and comforted at the same time, grief woven together with love.
Afterward, I stopped at the grocery store before heading home. The day had been bright and cool, the kind of autumn day that feels honest and simple. But around 5:00, darkness arrived all at once, and that’s when things began to unravel. The sudden early nightfall always unsettles me. I knew it was coming, tried to brace for it, but the reality still hits hard. The house feels too quiet, the evening too long.
By 5:30 I found myself pacing, feeling restless and a little trapped by the darkness. I couldn’t even go out to sit on the porch, which somehow made the walls feel closer. To distract myself, I made another batch of pumpkin spice lady locks, everyone who’s tried them has loved them, and I hadn’t made quite enough to go around the first time. The rhythm of baking helped, for a while.
I sat down to watch 60 Minutes around 7:00 but must have drifted off, because I woke up at 8:30 and realized I’d missed most of what I wanted to see. It frustrated me more than it should have, I suppose.
Now I think I’ll add a few thoughts to my blog before calling it a night. The day itself was good, full, productive, even meaningful. But the shortness of it, the loss of light, has left me feeling unsteady again. There’s something about that sudden darkness that magnifies everything you feel, and tonight, it’s loneliness that echoes the loudest.
November 3, 2025
Monday, November 3 — Late Morning Reflection
It’s currently 9:45 AM, and after consuming more than three cups of coffee while trying to develop a plan for the day, I can at least say the lady locks are filled and ready for consumption.
The air outside seems to be warming up, and the sun is still shining quite brightly. If this continues, I may go out and start detailing my car, something I’ve wanted to do for a while to prepare it for the winter months and all the salt that comes with them.
I purchased my car last May, just before Fran passed. Truth be told, I was perfectly fine with the car we already had, but over the past few years, Fran had often said, “I can’t believe you haven’t bought a new car yet.” I always told her that since we drove so few miles anymore, the one we had, even with over 160,000 miles on it, was just fine.
After a little gentle nudging from her, I finally found a 2022 Toyota Avalon that looked as though it had just rolled out of the showroom and decided to buy it. I had looked at several vehicles and test-driven a few, but there were certain requirements that had to be met before I’d make the purchase.
Cost, of course, was a major factor. Mileage came next. But most important were the features that would make things easier for Fran, power seats in the front, heated seats, and enough ground clearance so she could enter and exit comfortably from her wheelchair.
Now, every time I drive that car or even glance at it in the driveway, I can’t help but think to myself, what was the point? She passed the very next month after I bought it.
Evening Reflection
Monday, November 3, 2025 – 7:47 PM
It’s been a relatively eventful day, even though I haven’t been feeling all that well. I suppose it’s the price I pay for putting off procedures I should’ve had done a long time ago. But with Fran not being well for so long and me needing to care for her, taking any real downtime for myself just wasn’t an option.
The morning started slowly, but as things warmed up outside, I managed to get a couple of loads of laundry done and made good progress waxing my car, about three-quarters of it. When the sun was out this afternoon, it felt fairly comfortable, even with just a sweatshirt on. Still, this “getting old” business is really starting to wear on me. Things that once came easy now seem to take twice the effort and three times the time. What used to be a two-hour job stretched into nearly four, and I'm not finished, though I admit there were a few interruptions along the way.
Neal stopped by, bringing the coffee cup I’d left at his house Saturday night along with a couple of empty containers I’d sent food in. Not long after he left, a woman walking her dog stopped to chat. She asked if I was Kim’s father, Kim being my daughter, and then launched into a long conversation about how Kim had been her son’s kindergarten teacher. We talked for more than half an hour. She was pleasant and kind, and I suspect, weather permitting, I might see her again. She seemed to enjoy talking, and truth be told, I didn’t mind at all. These days, I actually find such chance conversations rather enjoyable.
By around four, I came inside, sat down in my chair, put on some music, and must have drifted off pretty quickly. This body just can’t handle what it used to. Later, around six, I remembered the peppers I’d pulled from the garden and a couple of small steaks I had thawed, so I decided to make steak teriyaki for dinner.
It turned out fairly well, though I had to cut the sauce a bit since the soy sauce I used wasn’t low-sodium, too salty for my taste. After adjusting it, it was fine, but in hindsight, maybe not the best meal choice for an unsettled stomach.
I’ve had abdominal pain most of the day, and a lighter meal probably would’ve been wiser. I still haven’t eaten yet, truth is, I’m not all that hungry. Maybe later I’ll just have a bowl of the soup I made a few days ago.
My son-in-law texted to let me know that my daughter’s procedure went well and that she’s doing fine. That news eased my mind quite a bit. She’s always so caring and checks in often, sometimes too often, but it’s only because she worries. I keep telling her I’m a big boy now, and if I need help, I’ll ask for it. Still, I’m grateful for her love and concern.
As the evening settles in, I’m left feeling tired but thankful, for family, for small kindnesses, and even for the strength to do a little more than I thought I could today.
October 4, 2025
Morning Reflection — “Light Behind Lace”
It’s just past sunrise, and the world feels quietly renewed. The air is cool, almost startling in its freshness, as though Mother Nature spent the night scrubbing it clean of every impurity. There isn’t a hint of dew, not a trace of moisture, only the gentle curl of steam rising from my coffee cup, swirling like a slow dance in the stillness.
The horizon is changing, but without hurry. The colors move softly from blue to pale gold, then to a faint orange that glows behind the trees. The sun hasn’t yet cleared the branches, it lingers, a light behind lace, the canopies weaving a delicate pattern of darkness before it.
There’s something quietly powerful in watching the day arrive this way. It doesn’t burst into being, it unfolds, patient and unassuming. For a few moments, it feels almost existential, like standing at the edge of something vast and eternal, where time itself is taking a breath.
Then, as the minutes slip by, the sound of the world begins to return. Heavy equipment rumbles in the distance, preparing for another day’s work at the school nearby. The peacefulness is interrupted, but not lost. Even through the noise, the beauty lingers in the air, reminding me that serenity isn’t something we find, it’s something we notice, if only for a moment, before life begins again.
Tuesday Morning Reflections — November 4
It’s currently 10:21 AM, and the day has already taken a few pleasant turns. Yesterday, I’d called my brother-in-law to tell him I had some lasagna rotini in the freezer for him and his wife, along with some soup and a few of the lady locks I made over the weekend. He said he’d stop by around 9:30, his usual time when he visits, but by then he still hadn’t arrived.
I called his cell phone, thinking maybe he’d forgotten, since I had already made us a couple of breakfast sandwiches, eggs, cheese, ham, a few slices of tomato, and just a touch of mayo on everything bagels. After a few rings, his wife answered and told me he had gone to church earlier and then planned to head to the gym, though she wasn’t sure if he’d still be stopping by.
Sure enough, around 9:45 he pulled in. We had breakfast together, chatted for a while, and I sent him off with a box full of food, meals made with care, shared with love.
Now, I’m sitting outside on the deck, and the weather is nothing short of spectacular. The sky is a clear, endless blue with only a few wisps of cloud — more like soft brushstrokes than clouds at all. The sun shines warmly, and I can feel it on my skin like a tender embrace.
Days like this are rare, especially in November, and I know there won’t be many more before the cold settles in. So today, the indoor tasks can wait. The weather is too perfect, too generous to ignore.
I find myself wondering why more people aren’t out walking, soaking it in, though maybe that’s the sentimental part of me talking. Perhaps it’s just something age gives you, a quiet understanding that these simple, ordinary moments are anything but.
Afternoon Reflection — November 4
It’s now 3:17 PM, and all things considered, I’ve accomplished quite a bit today. I finished waxing the car, then gave it a full interior detailing, not just the cabin, but under the hood and even the trunk. Everything looks and feels refreshed, almost as though the car itself is breathing easier.
When my neighbor Jane returned home, I stopped to chat with her for a few minutes as she got out of her car. I offered her some of the lady locks I’d made, and she was more than happy to accept, though, as always, she laughed and said, “Oh my goodness, you have to stop! I’m on a diet.” I also gave her a blueberry muffin for good measure. I told her that at this stage of life, worrying about diets isn’t something that crosses my mind anymore. Truth be told, I probably diet involuntarily these days, not by choice, but because I simply don’t eat much.
With all the food I prepare, one might think I’d be gaining pounds, but I’ve actually lost weight since Fran’s passing. I suppose it’s because cooking for one just isn’t the same. When I cooked for Fran, even with her teasing or questioning what I was making or how I was making it, I loved every bit of it. I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat, every dish, every meal, every little moment shared over the stove.
Now I’m sitting on the deck again. The sun has moved to the front of the house, so the deck rests in shade. The sky is an incredible pale blue, brushed with only the faintest whispers of cloud. It’s another absolutely gorgeous day, and I’m grateful to have spent most of it outdoors, accomplishing things, breathing in the fresh air, feeling alive in the doing.
Before sitting down with my coffee, I put on some rice, thinking I might reheat the steak and vegetable teriyaki I made last night. For now, though, I’m perfectly content. There’s a quiet satisfaction in the air, the kind that settles in after a day of simple purpose. Maybe it’s the weather, maybe the sense of completion, or maybe it’s just the comfort of knowing that, for today at least, I did enough.
For Fran, whose love still fills the quiet hours.,,
More to Come...