On Grief & Grieving - April 2026

April 1, 2026

It’s 7:42 AM on Wednesday, April 1.

The day didn’t exactly begin with conviction.

I first stirred around 4:30 this morning, only to make the decision, wisely, I think, to retreat back beneath the covers for a while longer. It wasn’t until around 6:00 that I finally rose for good, making my way toward the kitchen to begin the ritual that so often sets the tone for the day… that first cup of coffee.

Mug in hand, I walked to the patio doors, hoping, perhaps unrealistically, for even the slightest hint of light. Instead, I was greeted by a morning that could best be described as reluctant. Thick clouds stretched endlessly overhead, accompanied by a steady, persistent rain that showed no intention of letting up anytime soon. According to the forecast, it will ease briefly around mid-morning, only to return again later this afternoon and carry on into the evening.

Not exactly an inspiring start.

As if to match the tone of the sky, I found myself reflecting on yesterday’s call from my family doctor. The news itself was somewhat reassuring, my blood work came back fine, but that reassurance was quickly tempered by the fact that the urine sample had been contaminated, meaning it will all have to be done again. Somehow, in the midst of that inconvenience, I managed to secure an appointment for this morning at 10:30.

There’s always something.

Adding to the mix, the practice has relocated since my last visit, so I’ll be heading out a bit earlier than usual just to make sure I find the place without issue.

This morning also brought a message from the office prompting me to complete pre-registration online. What followed was a rather exhaustive process, far more involved than I expected. Page after page of information, uploads of identification and insurance cards (front and back, no less), and a steady stream of requests for details they seemingly should already have on file.

It took the better part of twenty minutes.

I couldn’t help but think back to a different time, when a doctor might come to your home, when care felt simpler, more direct, more human. Today, with all the advancements in technology, everything seems more complicated, more layered, more removed. It leaves me wondering how something designed to make life easier has, in so many ways, done just the opposite.

And yet… here we are.

Physically, the morning hasn’t offered much comfort either. There’s a persistent discomfort that seems to be growing more noticeable with each passing day, pain when using the bathroom, occasional cramps in my legs, and a stinging sensation in my feet that’s hard to ignore. It’s not the kind of thing that lifts the spirit, but it is the kind of thing that needs to be addressed, and perhaps today’s appointment will begin to shed some light on it.

At some point later today, I’ll also need to head out and pick up a ham for Easter dinner. Yesterday, I briefly considered going the easy route and purchasing one from HoneyBaked, remembering just how good the one we had after Fran passed away tasted. But a quick look at the price, over $115 for a 10-pound ham, quickly put that idea to rest.

Sometimes convenience simply isn’t worth the cost.

So instead, I’ll likely take matters into my own hands, find a good recipe, and prepare it myself. In many ways, that feels more fitting anyway.

For now, though, I sit here with my coffee, watching the rain trace quiet paths down the glass. The light is muted, the world outside subdued, and the day ahead carries its share of uncertainty.

But even in a morning like this, gray, damp, and unsettled, there is still movement.

There is still purpose.

And somehow, there is still a way forward.

Perhaps that’s enough for today.

Afternoon Addendum — Choosing the Light

It’s now just after 2:00 in the afternoon, and the question that lingered earlier—whether to stay inside and keep moving or step outside and simply be, has been answered.

I stepped outside.

What greeted me on the other side of the patio doors made the decision feel almost inevitable. The sky had opened up into a deep, endless blue, the kind that seems to stretch far beyond what the eye can follow. The sun stood strong and steady, casting its warmth without hesitation, while scattered clouds drifted by as if they had nowhere in particular to be.

I grabbed a folding chair, a fresh cup of coffee, and my phone, not for calls, not for distractions, but simply to capture a few moments of what felt like something worth holding onto.

Let there be light...

And it was.

There’s something about sitting beneath a sky like that, feeling the sun on your face, coffee in hand, with nothing required of you in that exact moment. No appointments. No decisions. No expectations. Just a quiet pause in the middle of a day that had already asked quite a bit.

For once, a welcome change, clouds that don't bring on depression...

The light felt different out there, not just brighter, but softer somehow… more forgiving.

As I sat there, I realized that this wasn’t time taken away from the day’s responsibilities, it was time given back to myself. A small but meaningful reset. A reminder that even on days filled with uncertainty, discomfort, and things I’d rather not be dealing with, there are still moments waiting patiently to be noticed.

Moments like this don’t demand much. They just ask that we show up.

And today… I did.

The sun didn’t ask any questions. It didn’t need answers. It simply shined, steady, unwavering, just as it always has.

Just as you always did, Fran…a constant light, even on the days when I needed it most.

A Day of Small Discoveries and Quiet Connections

By early afternoon, what had started as a beautiful day began to shift. Around 2:30 PM, the sky slowly thickened with clouds, the sun fading behind them as my attention drifted from the sky above to the ground below. What caught my eye was a scattering of dandelions, suddenly everywhere, bright and persistent.

Those little yellow flowers brought back memories of Fran’s uncle, who used to come around this time of year to pick them. He knew exactly when they were at their best, gathering the greens for salad, something Fran always enjoyed, though I never quite developed a taste for it myself. The flowers, however, were another story. He would make dandelion wine from them, and that’s something I did come to appreciate over time.

That led me down a path of curiosity. I had recently read that the small unopened buds of dandelions could be prepared like capers. Something I had never heard of before, but intriguing enough to consider trying. The idea that this one simple plant could serve so many purposes, greens, wine, and now even a caper substitute, was something I found surprisingly meaningful.

Later in the afternoon, just as I was about to head back inside, I heard the sound of a lawnmower nearby. Looking out, I saw my neighbor Bob, once again, cutting my grass. This is now the fourth time he’s done it this season, completely on his own, without ever being asked.

I went over to thank him, and before I could say much, he brought up the hoagie I had given him the other day, telling me it was one of the best he’s ever had. He was quick to add that I didn’t need to feed him, he simply enjoys the exercise and knows I appreciate the help.

We talked for a bit, and I offered him some of the freshly prepared horseradish from yesterday’s batch, he passed. I mentioned the idea of making dandelion “capers”, he passed on that too. Bread wasn’t much of an interest either… unless it involved a hoagie or pizza.

That was the moment the gears started turning.

We talked briefly about what he likes on his pizza, and it became immediately clear, this was something I could do. Something simple, something he would actually enjoy. S o in the near future, I’ll be making a few pizzas, one for him to enjoy right away, and a couple more he can freeze for later.

What continues to strike me is not just the gesture of him cutting my grass, but the consistency of it. He’s a recently retired guy, always outside doing something, cutting, trimming, feeding birds and deer, constantly moving. The kind of person who doesn’t sit still for long.

And yet, without ever making a point of it, he continues to look out for me

.

It’s not about repayment. It’s not about keeping score.

It’s just two people, in their own way, doing something for each other.

Sometimes, that’s more than enough...

And somewhere within that light, I find you, Fran, not as you were, but as you are now. Still with me…just beyond what I can see.