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On Grief & Grieving - April 2026
- kresicki
- Apr 1
- 70 min read
Updated: Apr 16
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.
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.
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.
April 2, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
It’s 6:10 AM on a quiet Thursday morning, and I find myself standing once again at the patio doors, coffee in hand, looking out into whatever the day has decided to offer.
Last night was not a good night.
Sleep, which usually comes easily to me, was nowhere to be found. The leg cramps returned with more intensity than usual, enough to keep me from settling in, enough to make even the thought of rest feel just out of reach. Add to that the ongoing frustration of frequent trips out of bed, and it became a night of interruptions rather than sleep.
I didn’t even make it into bed until nearly 2 AM, just shortly after finishing up a small kitchen task, peeling, slicing, and brining fresh beets. Even in the middle of a restless night, there’s something grounding about working with your hands, doing something simple and familiar.
Still, the toll of it all is there this morning.
I don’t feel terrible—but I certainly don’t feel rested.
Stepping out and looking across the yard, I notice a light fog has settled in. Not thick or heavy, just enough to soften everything it touches. The lights from the school behind the house glow in the distance, diffused through the mist, no longer sharp or harsh but instead quiet and almost gentle.
It’s interesting how something so ordinary can be transformed so completely by just a little moisture in the air.
The trees stand in silhouette, their branches still bare, holding their place against the early morning sky. The deck railing beneath me feels steady and familiar, anchoring me in this moment while everything beyond it seems just slightly blurred, just slightly out of reach.
And in a way, that feels fitting.
This morning isn’t sharp or vibrant. It isn’t one of those brilliant sunrises that stops you in your tracks. It’s softer than that… quieter… a little unsettled, much like the night that came before it.
But even in the haze, there is still light.
It may be diffused, it may be distant, but it’s there, steady, patient, waiting for the fog to lift when the time is right.
Perhaps that’s enough for today.
No expectations of brilliance. No demand for clarity. Just the quiet understanding that even on mornings like this, when the body feels worn and the mind a bit weary, there is still something to hold onto.
A soft light in the distance. A moment of stillness. A breath taken with a cup of coffee in hand.
Somewhere beyond the mist, just out of sight but never out of reach, I can’t help but feel that Fran is still there… in the quiet, in the light, in the gentle way this morning has chosen to arrive.
Even in the haze… she finds her way through.
Morning Brew & Reflections (Continued)
By 6:25 AM, the morning found its voice.
Not in any dramatic way… nothing loud, nothing demanding attention. Just a soft, steady tapping, raindrops beginning to fall, making their presence known against the deck and the table just beyond the patio doors.
It’s the kind of sound most people might not even notice.
But standing here, coffee still warm in hand, it becomes part of the moment… part of the atmosphere that’s slowly taking shape around me.
The fog still lingers, gently holding the distance in a quiet blur, and now these larger drops of rain seem to fall with purpose, spaced just enough apart to be heard individually. Not a downpour, not even a steady rain… just a soft percussion, as if the morning itself is keeping time.
There’s something calming about it.
No urgency. No rush. Just a quiet rhythm layered gently over everything else.
The kind of sound that doesn’t interrupt your thoughts… it settles into them.
And somehow, it fits.
After a restless night, after the discomfort and the interruptions, this soft tapping feels almost like a counterbalance. Not enough to change anything… but enough to soften the edges just a bit.
It reminds me of something Fran used to say, that if it was going to rain, she preferred it at night, so she could listen to it as she drifted off to sleep. She always found comfort in that sound, almost like a lullaby.
This morning, it feels like that same lullaby has arrived a little late… but maybe right on time.
Not to put me to sleep—but to help ease me into the day.
As those drops continue to fall, one by one, finding their place on the deck just outside these doors, I can’t help but pause and listen a little longer.
Because sometimes, it’s not the grand moments that carry us forward…
Sometimes it’s just the quiet ones, a soft light through the fog, a gentle tapping of rain, and the memory of someone who once listened to it beside you.
And in that quiet rhythm, she’s still here.
She Still Meets Me Here
Morning Brew & Reflections — Where the Light Still Meets Me
It’s 8:47 AM.
The dough for the nut rolls sits quietly beneath its towel, beginning its rise,slow, steady, and unseen.
Much like so many things in life.
As I covered the bowl, the room began to brighten. Subtle at first… enough to make me pause.
I walked toward the patio door.
And there it was.
Soft light spilling across the sky, pressing gently through the clouds as though it refused to be held back any longer.
In that familiar space between the trees… that place where the branches seem to form something more than just limbs…
I found myself looking… not just at the light… but through it.
There are moments when it feels like she’s still there.
Not in form… not in anything I could ever truly explain… but in presence.
In warmth.
In the way the light arrives exactly when it’s needed most.
This morning didn’t feel like chance.
It felt like a meeting place.
The dough rises quietly behind me. The day waits patiently ahead,
and somewhere between the clouds and the branches…
the light reminds me…
I’m not standing here alone.
It’s 8:53 AM.
Just minutes after watching the first light break through, the sky has already begun to change again. The clouds are moving quickly now, almost as if they’ve decided they’ve held on long enough.
And the sun…
No longer hiding.
No longer asking permission.
It’s there—strong, steady, and warm.
I stepped outside, camera in hand, not thinking much about anything other than capturing the moment. Just a T-shirt on, no jacket, no hesitation.
And that’s when I felt it.
The warmth.
Not imagined. Not hoped for. Real.
It settled onto my skin in a way that felt both comforting and familiar… like something I’ve known for a very long time. I stood there for a moment longer than I needed to. Looking toward those trees… that space where the branches still seem to form something more than coincidence, and as the light poured through once again, I couldn’t help but feel that this wasn’t just about the weather.
Some mornings, the light simply appears.
And some mornings… it reaches you.
The dough continues to rise quietly inside. The day is just beginning to take shape, and out here, in the warmth of a sun that refused to stay hidden…
it feels, once again…
like I’m being reminded.
Not everything that touches you can be seen.
Afternoon Light & A Small Victory
The clock on the radio read 2:22 PM, three deuces lined up as if to mark the moment, and I had just pulled the first three nut rolls from the oven.
Three more were resting on the dining room table, slowly rising, with one final piece of dough waiting its turn… likely destined for a little starburst experiment.
I have to say, I’m more than pleased.
At Christmas, I struggled with the dough blowing out along the sides, frustrating, to say the least. But after some thoughtful back-and-forth, a simple adjustment made all the difference: a few slits across the top, much like scoring a loaf of bread. A place for the dough to expand… a path of least resistance.
And this time, it worked beautifully.
Instead of breaking where it wanted, the rolls opened exactly where they were meant to. Controlled. Clean. Almost as if they understood the assignment.
The sun, meanwhile, continues to shine brightly through a sky still scattered with clouds. Not a perfect blue, but something better, alive, moving, shifting. A sky with character.
I think I may step away for a bit now…pour another cup of coffee, and spend a few quiet minutes just watching it all unfold.
Because days like this, where things come together just a little more than expected, are worth pausing for.
And in that pause, in the warmth of both oven and sunlight, there’s a quiet sense of gratitude…the kind that doesn’t need to be spoken to be felt.
There was a time earlier today when I thought I might make one… maybe two nut rolls just to carry on the tradition.
But somewhere between the mixing and the rising, between the shaping and the baking, the number quietly grew. Until there were enough for everyone who came to mind.
The dough had its own kind of life in it today. You could see it, feel it… working from the inside out, turning something simple into something worth sharing.
And maybe that’s what today was really about.
Not just the baking… but the giving.
The sun stayed with me longer than expected, the kitchen stayed warm, and before long there was more than enough to go around.
And somehow, in the middle of all of it, it felt like she was right there… in the light, in the warmth, in the quiet joy of making something for the people we love.
April 3, 2026
From Quiet to Warmth
It began at 8:14 AM, sitting on the deck with a second cup of coffee, noticing something that felt almost unfamiliar…
Silence.
Not the kind that comes late at night, but a daytime quiet that rarely finds its way into the morning hours.
Then it made sense.
Easter weekend.
No school buses working their way up the street. No parents ushering children into the day. No heavy equipment moving back and forth like it has for months.
Everything that usually fills the air had stepped aside… leaving behind a stillness that felt almost like it followed me out of the house and settled in beside me.
Even the birds seemed to respect it, breaking the silence only briefly, then quieting again, as if they understood something I was only just beginning to feel.
And in that quiet, I noticed the trees.
Just days ago, they stood bare against the sky. Now, if you look closely, there are small signs of life, tiny buds forming along the branches.
No announcement. No urgency.
Just life… returning.
The silence didn’t feel empty.
It felt full… just in a different way.
The kind of quiet that makes room for memory to sit beside you.
And this morning, it did.
I found myself thinking of Fran, not in the heavy way that sometimes arrives, but in a softer presence… like the warmth of sunlight through the glass on those mornings when everything simply felt right.
If she were here, I imagine we would have been sitting together, not saying much at all…just sharing the moment, the quiet, the coffee… the peace.
By 8:50, the sky had changed its mind.
Heavier clouds began to roll in, slowly at first, then with purpose… and before long, I could feel a few raindrops, just enough to let me know my time outdoors had come to an end.
So I gathered myself and moved indoors, bringing that quiet along with me.
Standing in the kitchen, I thought it might be a good idea to have a bite to eat before deciding what the rest of the day might hold.
And that’s when I noticed them…
The nut rolls.
Sitting there on the table, almost as if they had been waiting for this exact moment.
It seemed like the perfect opportunity for a little “quality control.”
One slice in… and I had my answer.
The dough, soft, rich, and perfectly balanced. The filling, smooth, even, and exactly where it should be.
No blowouts. No surprises. Just a beautiful spiral from edge to edge.
The enriched dough, the filling, came together better than I could have hoped.
This wasn’t just a good batch.
This was a keeper.
So there I sat…rain beginning to tap gently outside, coffee within reach, and a slice of something made with care in front of me, and in that moment, everything felt… right.
It’s a funny thing how the day can shift, from a quiet, empty stillness outdoors…to a warm, comforting kind of quiet indoors.
Different… but somehow connected.
There’s a gentle understanding settling in today.
Not every day needs to be filled. Not every silence needs to be broken.
Some days are meant to be lived in between the sounds, in the quiet spaces where life returns…where memories soften…and where even the simplest things bring a sense of peace.
As the rain continues to fall, and the buds quietly begin to open, I can’t help but feel…
that somewhere within this stillness, she is here,
not in the noise of the day, but in the warmth of it…in the quiet…in the simple goodness of a morning shared in memory.
An Afternoon of Giving… and a Glimpse Beyond
It’s 5:14 PM, and I find myself sitting out on the deck, taking in the fresh air as a gentle breeze moves through. The sun makes its appearance now and then, slipping between passing clouds, just enough to remind me it’s still there, even when hidden.
Earlier today, Fran’s friend Nancy stopped by on her way to a doctor’s appointment. Yesterday, I had sent her a photo of the nut rolls I made, along with a simple invitation, if she liked what she saw, she was more than welcome to stop by for one, and she did.
She left with more than just a nut roll. I sent her along with some of the beets I had made on Wednesday,something she had really enjoyed, and a portion of the ham salad I had prepared a couple of days ago.
When she tasted the ham salad, her reaction was immediate—"Oh my God… this is just like what I used to eat when I was a kid."
She mentioned how much her mother, who recently passed, would have loved it. When I told her it was made from bologna, not ham, she was genuinely surprised. Like many, she assumed ham salad could only be from ham.
But that opened the door to something deeper, a quiet reminder of a different time. A time when people made do with what they had. When bologna stood in for ham, not as a compromise, but as a solution. A reflection of resilience, especially for those who lived through or near the days of the Depression.
When I told her that what she remembered as “ham salad” was likely bologna salad, she paused… then smiled. It made sense, and it made her laugh.
There’s something special about food like that. It doesn’t just feed the body,it reconnects us to places, people, and moments long gone, yet somehow still present in a single bite.
The rest of the afternoon turned into one of those unexpectedly productive stretches. I started with a quick vacuum in front of my recliner, but as these things tend to go, it didn’t stop there. Before long, the entire house was done. Then came the rug shampooer, living room and hallway. Finally, the steam cleaner made its way across the kitchen and dining room floors.
One thing led to another… and by the time I stepped back, everything felt refreshed.
Later, I made my way downstairs and began sorting through photographs, small windows into a lifetime of memories. Some of these may eventually find their place in the memoir I’ve been working on. It’s a slow process, but one that feels right… like each photo is quietly waiting its turn to speak.
Now here I am again, back outside.
The breeze has picked up a bit, not cold, not warm, just right. A Goldilocks kind of evening. Sitting here in a T-shirt, completely comfortable, letting the air move around me, I’m reminded that not every moment needs to be extraordinary to be meaningful.
Sometimes, it’s enough just to sit, to breathe… and to look a little closer.
Because as the afternoon begins to soften into evening, my eyes are drawn once again to those two trees standing at the edge of the yard.
Bare branches reaching upward, slightly leaning, almost aware of one another… together they form something more than just trees. They shape an opening, a space that feels less like coincidence and more like intention.
A kind of portal.
Not something you can walk through, not something you can touch… but something you can feel.
Beyond them, the sky stretches wide and open, painted in soft blues with clouds drifting slowly through, as if passing from one world into another. Nothing rushed. Nothing forced. Just a gentle movement… like time itself.
I’ve come to notice how often my eyes settle there. As if something within me recognizes it, even if I can’t fully explain why.
Maybe it’s because grief has a way of changing how we see things. What once were just trees… now feel like a doorway. What once was just sky… now feels like distance, depth… and somehow, connection.
Sitting here, in the quiet of the evening, with the breeze brushing past and the light beginning to fade, I can’t help but wonder…
If there are moments, small, ordinary moments, when the distance between here and there feels just a little bit thinner.
As if, just for a second…if you look in the right place, at the right time…you might almost see through.
And maybe that’s enough.
Maybe that’s where you are, Fran, not gone… not lost…just on the other side of something I’m only beginning to understand.
April 4, 2026
The Light That Finds Its Way In
It began as one of those mornings that didn’t offer much encouragement.
At 6:15 AM, the world outside the patio doors was wrapped in gray. A light rain fell steadily, soft enough to ignore, but persistent enough to set the tone. The kind of morning where expectations are naturally lowered, not out of pessimism, but experience.
Even the forecast seemed uncertain. Clouds lingering well past sunrise. Brief windows of light promised, but nothing guaranteed. Still… I sat down with my coffee and watched, as I always do.
There was time.
By 6:38, the rain had moved on, but it left behind a sky that felt heavy—layered clouds stretching from the horizon upward, as if the morning itself was reluctant to begin.
And yet, something subtle was happening.
Not a clearing… not a break… just a softening.
The darkness wasn’t disappearing. It was loosening its hold.
Out back, the two trees stood exactly as they always had, bare, steady, unmoved. Their branches reached upward, not in search of anything, but simply existing as they are. They didn’t ask for the light. They didn’t chase it.
They just waited.
And then came the birds.
Despite everything the sky suggested, they carried on as if the outcome had already been decided. Their voices filled the air, cutting through the stillness, offering a kind of quiet confidence I couldn’t quite claim for myself.
It made me wonder if they understood something I didn’t.
That the light doesn’t need to be seen… to be trusted.
By 6:50, the first signs began to appear.
Small breaks in the clouds. Nothing dramatic, just enough to let a hint of color filter through along the horizon. It came softly, almost hesitantly, as if the morning was testing whether it was worth continuing.
But it was enough.
Enough to create a shift. Enough to introduce something that hadn’t been there before.
Possibility.
At 7:09, the sun still hadn’t revealed itself, but I knew it was there, working behind a stubborn band of clouds that refused to give way. Above it, the sky had begun to change. Light filtered through in fragments, offering glimpses of what might be waiting.
And so I stayed.
Because by then, it was clear, this wasn’t going to be a morning of sudden brilliance. This was something else entirely.
Something slower.
By 7:21, the clouds seemed almost intentional in their resistance. Revealing just enough to keep me watching, then pulling back again, as if drawing the moment out on purpose.
And I let it.
Because somewhere along the way, the need for a perfect sunrise had already passed.
At 7:29, the morning shifted again.
Fog began to roll in, quietly, gently, settling into the low places, softening the edges of everything it touched. It didn’t overpower the moment. It completed it.
What had started as a dull, uncertain morning had now become layered… textured… alive in a way I hadn’t expected.
And still, I waited.
At 7:43, the first true opening appeared.
Just a small break in the clouds. Just enough for the sun to peek through and make its presence known.
Not a full reveal.
Just a quiet confirmation.
It was there.
And then, finally, at 8:07…
it arrived.
Not across the sky.
But into the house.
Through the glass of the patio doors, the light made its way inside, stretching across the floor, reaching the table, settling softly on the leaves of the plant as if it had always intended to end up there.
There was no drama in it.
No grand announcement.
Just warmth.
And in that moment, it became something more than something seen.
It was felt.
A quiet motivation. A gentle reassurance. A reminder that the waiting had meaning.
Because sometimes, the light doesn’t come in the way we expect.
It doesn’t always break through the clouds with brilliance or clarity.
Sometimes…
it finds its way in slowly.
Quietly.
And when it does…it reminds you that it was always there.
Working. Waiting. Finding a way through.
And maybe that’s enough.
Maybe more than enough.
Because in that warmth, in that stillness, in that simple, quiet arrival…
I couldn’t help but feel like she was there too.
Not in the sky.
But in the light that finally found its way home.
A Day That Came Together
What began as a slow and uncertain morning gradually turned into something far more meaningful than I could have expected.
By around 10 AM, I found myself in the kitchen, turning my attention to preparing the ham for tomorrow’s Easter dinner. A 17-pound bone-in ham sitting there waiting for a bit of care and attention.
Following a simple but thoughtful process, I scored the surface, allowing the glaze to work its way in as it slowly warmed in the oven. There’s something almost therapeutic about that kind of preparation, no rush, no pressure… just time, patience, and purpose.
After a few hours, the house had taken on that unmistakable aroma, sweet, warm, inviting. The kind of smell that makes a house feel like a home.
From there, I made my way down to the family room and continued working on the memoir.
And today… real progress happened.
For the first time, it truly felt like I wasn’t just writing pieces or collecting thoughts I was holding the beginnings of a real book. A cover page, a preface, a dedication, chapters taking shape, photographs placed where they belong.
Something tangible. Something meaningful.
Of course, being who I am, I’ll continue to refine it, tweaking, adjusting, making sure it’s exactly the way it should be. But for the first time, I could actually see it coming together.
That alone made the day worthwhile.
By mid-afternoon, I returned to the kitchen and pulled the ham from the oven.
And I have to say…
It was exceptional.
Easily one of the best I’ve ever made. The glaze brought everything together, just the right balance of sweetness and depth, and I couldn’t help but feel confident that it will be well received tomorrow.
Not long after, I stepped outside.
For a while, I did nothing but sit in the sun… watching the clouds move across the sky, feeling the warmth settle in, taking in the quiet of the afternoon.
No agenda. No distractions. Just a moment to be present.
And as I sat there, it became clear…
This wasn’t just a productive day.
It was a memorable one.
The kind of day where things come together, not all at once, not perfectly, but in a way that feels real, steady, and meaningful.
And in that quiet warmth… I couldn’t help but feel that somewhere in it, you were there too… just as present, just as steady… reminding me that even the simplest days can still hold something beautiful.
April 5, 2026
Easter Morning — Between Rain and Remembrance
It’s 6:22 AM on Easter Sunday.
The day hasn’t even fully arrived yet, and already it feels like it’s struggling to find its footing. When I opened the patio doors this morning, the darkness wasn’t alone, there was a light rain falling, steady and soft, like the sky itself hadn’t quite made up its mind to celebrate.
Fifty-three degrees on the thermometer, but feeling closer to forty-six. A chill that seems to settle in a little deeper than it should for April.
The forecast promises more of the same, rain through the day, even as temperatures climb toward seventy-one. One of those days where the numbers say “spring,” but everything else says otherwise.
Not exactly the Easter morning I had hoped for.
Still, the day will move forward, rain or not.
Later this afternoon, we’ll gather at my daughter’s house, fifteen, maybe sixteen of us. A full table, full of life, conversation, and tradition. Even if the outdoors won’t be part of it this year, the warmth will be there in other ways.
Here at home, the quiet work of the morning is already lining up.
The ham I prepared yesterday will come out around noon to be reheated, slowly bringing it back to life. The kielbasa waits downstairs, soon to be cut, glazed, and set into the oven. The beets are done, the eggs are pickled and ready, the horseradish from last week’s work with Bob standing by, just needing to be remembered when it’s time to head out the door.
Everything, more or less, in its place.
And yet, not everything feels quite right.
There’s a discomfort this morning that’s hard to ignore, persistent, distracting, and wearing on me more than I’d like to admit. One of those things that makes even the simplest movements feel like more effort than they should be.
Still, the day calls, and I’ll answer it the best I can.
Yesterday was spent mostly in preparation, both in the kitchen and at the desk. The ham, of course, but also the memoir. Page by page, line by line, photo by photo. What started as something I wasn’t even sure I could do is now taking shape into something real… something tangible.
But it’s not easy.
Every detail feels like it matters. Every photo, every word, every space between sentences. It’s far more time-consuming, and at times more emotionally demanding, than I ever imagined.
Maybe that’s because I’m still chasing something that doesn’t exist.
Perfection.
I’ve done that most of my life. No matter what the task, I always believed there was a way to make it just a little better.
Fran never saw it that way.
If I made something she loved, she would tell me, plain and simple, that it was perfect just the way it was. “Don’t change a thing,” she’d say.
I’d answer the same way every time: “There’s always room for improvement.”
That used to drive her a little crazy.
This morning, sitting here listening to the rain, I can almost hear her saying it again.
And maybe… just maybe… she was right.
Maybe not everything needs to be improved. Maybe some things, some moments, some memories, some expressions of love, are already exactly what they’re meant to be.
Even a rainy Easter morning.
Closing Reflection
The rain may fall today, and the sun may stay hidden behind the clouds…but somewhere beyond them, it still rises, steady, faithful, and unchanged.
Maybe that’s enough to carry forward.
Just as she would have wanted...
Easter Then and Now — The Echoes That Remain
It’s 6:41 AM, and I find myself standing at the patio doors, scanning the horizon.
Not really expecting much…but still hoping.
The rain hasn’t let up, and the sky offers little promise of anything different. Still, I look, because that’s what I do.
As I stand there, watching a morning that refuses to break open, my mind drifts back to Easter mornings from so many years ago…
Back when the house was full.
Fran would already be up, moving quietly, but quickly, through the rooms, hiding Easter baskets filled with all sorts of things the kids probably shouldn’t have been eating in the first place. Candy, chocolates, little surprises… all carefully placed just out of sight.
Not because they needed them.
But because she loved what came next.
Those smiles.
The excitement. The laughter. The pure, unfiltered joy when those baskets were finally found.
Then came the egg hunts.
If the weather cooperated, it was outside, kids, our own, nieces, nephews, sometimes children of friends and neighbors, running wild across the yard, tearing through the grass and garden like a small storm of energy, each one determined to find more than the next.
If the weather didn’t cooperate… well, Fran adapted.
She turned the house itself into the hunt.
Eggs hidden everywhere, behind furniture, tucked into corners, balanced in places that made no sense at all. Each one holding a small treasure, candies, coins, sometimes even a dollar bill if you were lucky.
And the result?
Absolute chaos.
Kids running in every direction, overturning cushions, opening drawers, laughing, shouting… leaving behind a trail of joyful destruction that, at the time, probably felt like a lot to deal with.
But looking back now…
It was everything.
Even before all of that, there was the quiet tradition of decorating real eggs.
Not plastic.
Real eggs.
Something my family carried from my father’s heritage. Wax and food coloring, careful patterns, patient hands. My father was incredibly good at it, his designs always seemed to come out just right.
Ours?
Not so much.
As kids, we tried. We really did. But no matter how hard we worked at it, our eggs never looked like his. I remember the frustration… the quiet disappointment of wanting something to be perfect without understanding what it took to get there.
We didn’t yet know that anything worthwhile, anything truly beautiful, takes time.
Years.
Sometimes decades.
That lesson would come later.
Now, standing here all these years removed from those moments, I can feel them returning… one after another.
Not gently.
But in waves.
Since Fran’s passing, it’s as if a door has opened, one I didn’t even know was there, and behind it lives a lifetime of memories waiting to be remembered.
At times, it feels like too much.
Too much to process. Too much to hold all at once.
And yet…
There’s something else in it too.
Something I’m only beginning to understand.
Because even though those moments felt ordinary at the time, just another Easter, just another day, they were anything but.
They were life happening in its purest form.
The fact that I can still see them… still feel them… still step back into them, even for a moment…
That’s something to be thankful for.
Closing Reflection
The house may be quieter now, and the mornings slower…but the echoes of those days still live within these walls—and within me.
Perhaps that’s what memory is meant to do…
Not just remind us of what was, but gently show us what truly mattered all along.
A Morning in Gray — And a Song I Didn’t Need
It’s 6:54 AM, and the rain continues.
Not heavy… not dramatic… just steady. Persistent in a way that almost feels intentional. Like it has no plans of going anywhere anytime soon.
The sky has begun to lighten now, but not with color, only with shades of gray. Light gray, dark gray, and everything in between. No hints of warmth, no streaks of sunrise breaking through… just a quiet, muted beginning to the day.
A reminder, I suppose… that not every morning can be what we hope it will be.
Even when we want it to be.
I stand here still, looking out toward the horizon, knowing full well there’s not much to see, and yet unable to stop looking anyway.
Then, as if on cue, the music starts in the kitchen.
The jazz station I listen to every day, usually a source of comfort, something easy, something familiar, suddenly shifts.
Don’t Say Goodnight by The Isley Brothers begins to play.
Really?
Of all songs… at this moment… this one.
It’s funny how music works.
Most days, it’s just background, something that fills the space. But other times, it reaches in without warning and pulls something out you weren’t prepared to feel.
And this one…
This one takes me somewhere I don’t want to go.
A place that feels heavier than the morning already is. A place where memory and emotion don’t just sit quietly, they press in. Hard.
It’s not what I need right now.
Not today.
Not this morning.
So I stand there for a moment, caught between the sound of the rain, the weight of the sky, and the pull of a song that seems to know exactly where the soft spots are.
Maybe that’s part of this journey too.
Not just the memories we choose to revisit…but the ones that find us anyway.
Closing Reflection
Some mornings arrive gently .Others… carry a little more weight.
Sometimes, all we can do is stand in the middle of it, turn the dial if we need to…and keep moving forward, one quiet moment at a time.
April 7, 2026
6:53 AM — Between Passing Clouds
This morning began in fragments.
Not just in the sky, but in the rhythm of the morning itself, interrupted, unsettled, and difficult. Trips back and forth, the kind that wear on both the body and the mind, leaving little room for anything else.
And yet, in between it all, I found my way to the door.
The sky was heavy with clouds moving steadily from south to north, as if something unseen was pushing them along. Every so often, they would part just enough to reveal a quiet hint of light, nothing dramatic, just enough to remind me that the sun was still there, waiting for its moment.
It wasn’t a sunrise you could point to and say, there it is.
It was more subtle than that.
More patient.
The kind of morning that doesn’t reveal itself all at once, but asks you to stay with it… to look again… and then again.
Standing there, watching those openings come and go, I couldn’t help but think how much it mirrored everything else right now.
Pressure. Waiting. Uncertainty.
Then just enough relief to keep going.
The forecasters say the clouds will begin to break somewhere between 9 and 10.
Maybe they will.
Maybe they won’t.
But if this morning has shown me anything, it’s that even when the sky is heavy, the light doesn’t disappear.
It just takes its time finding a way through.
The Sun Moves North
At 7:14 this morning, I found myself standing once again at the patio doors, watching the sky begin its slow transformation.
But something felt different.
The sun, still low, still working its way through the clouds, was no longer where it had been just a few weeks ago. During the winter months, it rose well to the right of the trees that form the portal I’ve come to know so well.
Now, almost without realizing it until this morning, I could see it shifting… moving north along the horizon… inching its way toward a different place in the sky.
It’s not that this is the first time it’s ever happened.
It’s just the first time I’ve truly noticed it.
Maybe I’ve been standing here more often.
Maybe I’ve been looking a little closer.
Or maybe I’ve just been searching for something, anything, that feels steady, something that makes sense in a time when so much doesn’t.
I found myself wondering if I’m trying to escape… trying to step outside of thoughts I can’t yet accept.
Maybe there’s some truth in that.
But standing there, watching that slow, deliberate movement of the sun, I also felt something else.
Peace.
Not the kind that fixes anything.
Not the kind that takes the pain away.
But just enough to quiet things for a moment.
And for now… that’s enough.
April 8, 2026
When the Pain Says It’s Time
It was never really part of the plan to end the day in the emergency room, but sometimes the body makes the decision for you.
As the evening wore on, the pain intensified to a point where it could no longer be ignored. After some hesitation, and with encouragement from my daughter, I finally agreed it was time to go. She and my son-in-law took me to the hospital in Monroeville, where the night unfolded much as expected: paperwork, waiting, and more waiting. Nearly three hours passed before I was seen.
In the end, there were no immediate answers. No quick fix. Just confirmation of what I already suspected, this is something that will take time to sort out. The one clear recommendation from the doctor was to stop taking one of my blood pressure medications, a diuretic that may be working against the medication I’m using for prostate issues.
By the time I returned home, it was close to 3:00 AM. Exhausted, uncomfortable, and no further ahead than when I left, except perhaps in knowing that I had reached the point where something had to give.
Even in that, there is a kind of clarity.
I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to inconvenience anyone. I didn’t want to feel like a burden. But there comes a time when pushing through is no longer strength, it’s simply resistance.
Maybe last night was a quiet reminder of that.
There are moments when the night grows heavier than we expect, when even silence carries weight, and in those hours, when we finally ask for help,it is not weakness that speaks, but the body’s quiet wisdom saying,“You’ve carried this far enough.”
April 9, 2026
The Light That Still Finds Its Way In
This morning began somewhere between exhaustion and acceptance.
After returning from the hospital in the early hours, sleep came in fragments. When I finally opened my eyes again around 7:00 AM, the bedroom was filled with sunlight. My first thought was disappointment, I had missed the sunrise. That familiar, quiet unfolding that has become such a meaningful part of my mornings.
But when I pulled back the curtains, I realized something simple, yet important.
I hadn’t missed it entirely. I just hadn’t seen it the way I wanted to.
The sun had still risen. The light had still arrived.
Somehow, that felt like enough.
The rest of the day carried its share of uncertainty. I followed up with my family physician, relaying what the ER doctor had suggested about my medication. A nurse returned my call and mentioned that something might be prescribed to help manage the pain, though as of now, I’m still waiting to hear more.
In the midst of it all, there were reminders of just how fortunate I am.
My friend Bob, true to form, stepped in once again, making a call on my behalf to someone he knows within UPMC. That single act led to a call this morning offering an immediate appointment for a test that had originally been scheduled for May 7. While I couldn’t make it to Pittsburgh on such short notice, the appointment has now been moved up to April 30. Progress, even if incremental.
My daughter checked in again, making sure I was alright after bringing me home in the middle of the night. Later, my neighbor Neal reached out, wanting to drop off bread his mother had made after I had sent a nut roll home with him for Easter.
Small gestures, perhaps, but meaningful ones.
Despite the ongoing discomfort, I managed to spend some time working on the memoir, continuing to shape something that once felt beyond my reach. I also made pizza dough, planning to put together a few small pizzas for Bob, my neighbor across the street, as a simple thank you for cutting my grass several times already, this growing season. It doesn’t feel like enough in return for all he’s done, but it’s something I can give.
Now, as the day winds down, I find myself sitting on the deck with the last of this morning’s coffee. The temperature has climbed into the low 70s, a light breeze moving steadily from north to south. The sun has shifted, leaving me in the shade, but the sky remains a brilliant blue, clouds drifting slowly without urgency.
Here it is again… the portal of trees. Unchanged. Steady. Waiting.
Today didn’t unfold the way I had hoped. There is still pain, still waiting, still uncertainty.
But there was also kindness. There was connection. There was light, and sometimes… that is enough.
I thought I missed the morning,
the quiet rise, the gentle reveal.
But the light found me anyway,
spilling through curtains
I hadn’t yet opened.
Perhaps that’s how it works now,
not always as we expect,
not always in the moments we choose,
but arriving just the same.
And maybe healing, like the sunrise,
doesn’t ask for perfect timing,
only that we are there,
when it finally appears.
April 10, 2026
Morning Reflection — April 10
It’s 6:17 AM on Friday morning, and once again, it has been a difficult start to the day.
Three times within the past hour I’ve made that familiar trip, each one bringing with it a level of pain that’s hard to put into words, and still, no real relief when it’s over. It’s becoming something I find myself bracing for… not just reacting to, but anticipating.
And that may be the hardest part.
Knowing it’s coming.
There’s a strange contrast to all of this.
In the moments in between, I feel fine. Completely normal. As if nothing is wrong at all. I can stand at the patio doors, look out across the yard, and for a brief time, everything feels as it should.
But those moments don’t last.
And I know they won’t.
This morning I’ve traded my usual coffee for a cup of caffeine-free tea, hoping in some small way it might make a difference. Even the simplest routines now come with second thoughts.
Still, the morning arrives.
Out beyond the glass, the sky is beginning its slow transition. A deep blue holds most of the canvas, while a narrow band of warmth gathers at the horizon, quietly announcing the day.
The two locust trees stand as they always do, forming that familiar portal. Dark silhouettes against the light, unchanged, unmoved, and off to the right, a single bright point remains in the sky, steady, constant… unaffected by what’s happening below.
There’s something about that.
Something grounding.
As if, even in the midst of all of this, there are still things that hold their place.
For now, I stand here in that space between moments.
Between what has just passed… and what I know will come again.
Holding on to the quiet… while it lasts.
Even in the space between pain, the morning still finds a way to offer something steady… something unchanged.
Some mornings don’t ask for strength… only that we endure them, one moment at a time.
A Moment Between
Just before having to make another trip, I managed to step outside and capture a few photographs while there was still some color left on the horizon.
At that point, the sky was still holding on, deep blues stretching overhead, with a band of orange and gold resting quietly along the edge of the earth. For a moment, it felt like the morning was still intact… still offering something to hold onto.
But when I returned, things had already begun to change.
The color was thinning.
Not gone… but softer. Less certain. Almost like a watercolor left in the rain, still there, but fading, losing its definition.
It’s strange how quickly it happens.
One moment, everything feels rich and full… and the next, it’s as if the intensity has been quietly pulled away.
Yet even in that fading, there’s something worth noticing.
Something gentle.
The portal still stands.
Unchanged.
And off in the distance, for just a little while longer, that single point of light remains, steady against a sky that is slowly letting go of the night.
Maybe that’s what this morning is asking of me.
Not to hold onto the intensity…
But to recognize the beauty, even as it fades.
6:55 AM
It’s 6:55 AM, and the sun has finally made its way above the horizon.
Not directly in front of me as it has been in recent days, but slightly further north, just enough to remind me that things are always in motion, even when they seem to follow a familiar path.
I’m thinking that by tomorrow, it may rise at a point where I won’t be able to see it at all from here. The trees, the terrain, even the school behind the house may block it from view.
I suppose I could go looking for it.
Take a walk. Find a new angle. Chase it a little.
But this morning… that feels like more than I can ask of myself.
Not with everything else going on.
So instead, I take it as it is.
A partial view. A quiet appearance. A moment that doesn’t demand anything more from me than simply being here to witness it.
And maybe that’s enough.
The sky has softened now—no longer the deep contrast of earlier, but something lighter… almost like a pale watercolor spread gently across the canvas.
The intensity has passed.
What remains is something quieter.
More subtle.
But still there.
It’s 10:11 AM, and for the moment, the day feels generous.
There have been numerous trips to the restroom, more than I’d like to count, but sitting here now on the back deck, bathed in sunlight on a relatively warm spring morning, I find myself able to enjoy it… even if only in pieces.
And I’ll take that.
The warmth of the sun, the quiet of the yard, a cup in hand, simple things that, at least for now, are enough to steady the moment.
There may be a bit of hope on the horizon as well.
My family physician’s office called earlier this morning to let me know that a prescription has been sent in, something he hopes will help alleviate the pain. I’ve already received a message from the pharmacy that it’s being filled.
Now it’s just a matter of time.
And I find myself hoping, perhaps more than I have in a while, that this might finally offer some relief.
I spoke with my dear friend Bob earlier too.
He shared something that stayed with me. A longtime friend of his, someone who lost his wife four years ago, had been reading my blog. His long time friend reached out with condolences… but more than that, with understanding.
The kind that only comes from walking the same path.
He included a piece of writing, something about loss, about love, about what remains. It’s been copied so many times that it’s barely legible now, faded into black and white.
But the message is still there.
And maybe today, I’ll spend a little time with it. Try to bring it back. Give it some life again.
Much like everything else.
April 10 (Addition / Reflection)
Earlier today, my dear friend Bob shared something with me that I wasn’t expecting, but in many ways, needed.
A longtime friend of his, someone he’s known for over 65 years, reached out after reading some of my blog entries. He lives in Ohio and lost his wife four years ago, just last week.
So he knows.
Not in theory… not from a distance… but in the way only someone who has lived through it can truly understand.
He wrote a short note expressing his condolences, but more than that, he shared something he’s passed along to others who have experienced loss, words that have clearly meant something to him over the years.
The piece is titled “Death is Nothing at All,” by Henry Scott Holland, (1847–1918) an English theologian, Anglican priest, and social reformer. He served as Regius Professor of Divinity at the University of Oxford and was a canon of St Paul's Cathedral. He is remembered for combining deep religious conviction with a progressive concern for social justice. Holland’s integration of theology with social conscience influenced Anglican social teaching throughout the twentieth century. His prose “Death Is Nothing at All,” was adapted from a funeral sermon, and remains widely quoted for its compassionate view of mortality.
Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you or you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used to. Put no difference in your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just around the corner. All is well .
As I read through it, even though the copy itself has been passed from hand to hand, photocopied so many times that it’s faded into something barely legible… the message remains strong.
Clear.
Unchanged.
It speaks of continuity. Of presence. Of the idea that the bond we shared with someone we loved doesn’t simply end, but continues, just beyond what we can see.
That nothing essential has been taken away.
That who we were to each other… we still are.
Those are powerful thoughts.
Comforting in some ways… difficult in others.
Because while the words suggest closeness, “just around the corner,” the reality we live in every day still carries the weight of absence.
And yet… there’s something in those words worth holding onto.
Maybe not as a solution.
But as a companion.
A reminder that what we had… what we shared… what we built over a lifetime… doesn’t simply disappear.
It changes form.
It moves beyond reach.
But it doesn’t end.
I’m grateful he took the time to send it.
Grateful that Bob thought enough to share my writing, and grateful, in a quiet way, to be reminded that I’m not walking this path alone.
Perhaps the distance we feel is not as far as it seems… only just beyond what we can see, and maybe, just maybe, she’s not gone at all… only waiting somewhere close, where love still reaches.
Some words don’t take the pain away, but they help us carry it.
April 11, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
By the time the night settled in, I found myself once again standing at the patio door, not in search of a sunrise this time, but staring out into the darkness, trying to make sense of a day that felt both productive and unraveling at the same time.
The silence outside was absolute.Inside… not so much.
The day was marked, as so many recent ones have been, by discomfort that refuses to be ignored. Frequent trips to the bathroom, each one more painful than the last, slowly wearing down both body and spirit. By late evening five trips within a single hour, it became difficult to deny what I’ve been trying to manage.
This is no longer sustainable.
Tomorrow is no longer a “maybe.” It feels like a necessity.
Yet, even in the midst of all that, the day was not without effort.
I spent part of the afternoon in the garage, clearing space in hopes of preparing for the garden, thinking ahead to early May, to seeds, to growth, to something steady and predictable. But as I worked, it became clear that timing, like so many other things right now, may not unfold the way I had planned.
Still, the space is there now. A beginning, even if delayed.
There were other intentions too, pizza dough made yesterday with plans to share a few with my neighbor as a thank you. That didn’t come together either. Instead, a pot of sausage, mushrooms, peppers, and onions now rests quietly on the stove, waiting for a tomorrow that may or may not cooperate.
Sometimes preparation is all we can manage. Completion… comes later.
In between it all, I took a break and ran the car through the wash. Dried it down, vacuumed the interior. Simple things, but enough to feel like something was accomplished, something finished in a day where so much felt left undone.
I also made what will likely be my final attempt to reach my brother-in-law and sister-in-law—four calls over the course of a week, trying to deliver food I had prepared with care. Nut roll, horseradish, soup, ham, kielbasa. Time, effort, intention.
It's all still here...
At some point, you have to let go of the reaching.
What happens to the food now almost feels secondary, whether it’s kept, shared elsewhere, or discarded. It’s the effort behind it that lingers.
Not everything finds its way to where it was meant to go.
And then… there was Bob.
A phone call while I was in the garage. Nothing dramatic. Just checking in.
He wasn’t feeling well himself, yet still offered, without hesitation, to take me to the hospital if I needed it. No questions asked. No conditions. Just there.
He mentioned the soup I had given him. said it was exactly what he needed.
Funny how things find their way to the right place after all.
It’s hard not to notice the contrast on days like this. How some people show up… and others don’t.
But maybe that’s not the point.
Maybe the point is simply this: when someone does show up, truly show up, it matters.
More than we sometimes realize.
Now, as the day closes, I find myself back where it began, standing at the window, looking out into the night. No color. No horizon. Just reflection.
The body is tired. The mind, restless.
And tomorrow… feels inevitable.
But for now, there is still this moment. Stillness. Breath. Awareness.
The quiet understanding that even on a day that didn’t go as planned, there was effort… there was care… and there was connection.
And sometimes, that has to be enough.
Closing Reflection
Beyond the darkness, the morning is already on its way, unseen, but certain.
When it arrives, it won’t ask if I’m ready.
It will simply rise…and ask that I do the same.
Some days move forward with ease, others require sheer will just to get through.
Today was the latter—but it was still a step forward.
April 12, 2026
Even From a Distance
It’s Sunday, April 12, and it’s been another rugged night—probably the worst so far.
Sleep never really came. I finally got into bed around 2:00 AM, only to wake at 4:00… then 4:30… 4:45… 5:00… 5:20… and again at 6:00. By 6:20, I gave up and got out of bed, heading once again to the bathroom.
Since then, I’ve already made several more trips, and it was only 8:18 AM
.
Somewhere in the middle of all that, I noticed the room filling with light. Not just the usual morning glow, but something stronger, something that told me the sky was putting on a show.
When I pulled back the curtain, there it was… a sunrise that looked like it had everything, color, depth, contrast. One of those mornings that usually pulls me straight to the patio door without a second thought.
But today… I just didn’t have it in me.
I stood there for a moment, knowing what I was missing, but also knowing I didn’t have the strength to chase it.
That one, I thought… I’ll just have to remember.
Yet, sometime later, between trips back and forth, I did manage to step out and take a few photographs.
Not at the peak. Not at the beginning.
But maybe… right where I was meant to meet it.
Because what remained was still incredible.
The deep blues stretching across the sky, the soft pinks and oranges holding onto the horizon, and that quiet crescent moon hanging on as if it didn’t want to leave just yet. And there, as always, the two trees, standing like a familiar gateway, framing it all once again.
Even on a morning like this… they were still there.
At this point, I know what needs to be done. I’ll be heading back to the ER today, sooner rather than later. This has gone beyond something I can manage on my own.
I don’t want to call my daughter or son-in-law just yet. They had a long day yesterday helping family move, and I hate to add to that. But I know they’d be there in a heartbeat.
So I’ll wait just a little longer, maybe until around 9:00, and then make the call.
My bag is already packed. Clothes, iPad, slippers, toiletries… everything ready.
Just in case.
Closing Reflection
Some mornings, we run to meet the light.Other mornings… we simply endure the dark until it softens.
Somewhere in between, even when we arrive late, even when we feel like we’ve missed it, the sky is still there, waiting. Not demanding. Not judging. Just quietly offering what remains.
And maybe that’s enough.
Maybe that always has to be enough.
Because love… like the light…doesn’t disappear when we can’t reach it.
It just waits for us to find our way back, when we’re able.
Between Pain and Quiet
It is 7:26 PM, and I have just awakened from a long, heavy sleep in my recliner, the kind of sleep that doesn’t feel like rest so much as escape.
Today was one of the most difficult days I have endured in recent memory.
What took place in the emergency room is something I will not soon forget. The catheterization alone was one of the most horrific procedures I have ever experienced.
I lay there in that hospital bed, caught somewhere between pain and disbelief, calling out again and again for relief, any relief, only to be met with the same words repeated over and over:
We have to wait.
Wait for results. Wait for the doctor. Wait for the system to move at its own pace.
Meanwhile, time stretched, and the pain did not.
There is something deeply unsettling about being in that kind of agony, fully aware, fully conscious, and yet completely at the mercy of a process that does not bend, even when you do.
And still… after all of that… I was sent home.
When the doctor told me I was being discharged, I questioned him, perhaps more out of disbelief than defiance. After everything that had just unfolded, how could that be the conclusion? His answer was simple, almost resigned:
“It’s the system.”
In that moment, it felt like the system had very little to do with healing.
Yet here I am, back home, with what I can only describe as a temporary solution, a “relief valve” that, while uncomfortable and at times irritating, has brought with it a level of relief that had seemed almost out of reach earlier today. It is not ideal. It is not pleasant. But it is, for now, enough.
Enough to quiet the storm, if only slightly.
They also sent me home with medication strong enough to dull the edges of what remains, and for that, I am grateful. But even through that relief, a question lingers just beneath the surface:
How long can this go on?
Because temporary fixes, no matter how welcome, are still only temporary.
Tomorrow, I will begin again, calls to my family physician, calls to the urologist, searching for answers, for direction, for something more permanent. Something that offers not just relief, but resolution.
The numbers alone tell a story I can hardly ignore. Where most begin to feel the need at 300 mL, I had carried over 1300. Even the nurses paused at that. Even they had no words for it.
And somehow, I had been walking around like that.
This body… this system of its own… quietly holding more than it should, until it simply could not anymore.
When I returned home this afternoon, I was not alone for long. My daughter stayed by my side while my son-in-law made sure everything I needed was in place, medication, food, comfort. They didn’t just help; they steadied the moment.
Bob, as always, was there in the way only he can be, no questions, no hesitation, just a simple promise:
“If you need me, I’m there.”
Then Neal, reaching out with kindness before even knowing the full story, offering a meal, a gesture, a reminder that even in the middle of personal struggle, care still finds its way to the door.
These are the quiet anchors in a day that felt otherwise unmoored.
So now, as evening settles in, I find myself once again standing at the patio doors, looking out into the fading light. The same place I begin so many mornings now holds the weight of this day’s end.
And the questions remain.
How did this happen? Why did it happen? What comes next?
There are no answers waiting in the darkness tonight. Only reflection. Only stillness. Only the quiet hum of a world continuing on, indifferent yet somehow comforting in its constancy.
But there is something else too, something quieter still.
Relief, however temporary. Support, however simple, and the faint but steady realization that even on a day like this… I made it through.
Tonight, there is no grand resolution. No sense of closure. Just a man standing at a window, carrying questions he cannot yet answer.
Yet, somewhere beyond the glass, in the unseen and the unknown, tomorrow is already beginning to take shape.
And for now… that is enough.
April 13, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
It’s 6:57 AM on Monday, April 13, and once again I find myself perched at the patio door, watching, waiting, and anticipating what might unfold over the next hour.
The sky is heavy with clouds this morning, but not without promise. Along the horizon, the cloud cover appears thinner than what hangs overhead, allowing faint traces of light to break through. Subtle colors, muted but present, hint that something is trying to emerge. I managed to capture a few photographs, though this feels like one of those mornings where the beauty is more sensed than seen.
I stepped outside briefly. It was surprisingly comfortable, 63 degrees, though it felt closer to 57. There’s moisture in the air; not quite rain, but enough to leave a trace on your skin. A quiet reminder that the day is still deciding what it wants to be.
The forecast suggests wind later on, with the sun finally making an appearance sometime around 4 PM, carrying through until sunset. Something to look forward to… a reward for patience, perhaps.
Last night, I actually managed a decent amount of sleep, but not in my bed. I set up camp in the recliner. Not by choice, but necessity. I’m still adjusting to this “extra attachment” I was sent home with, something I’m treating with caution more than comfort. The last thing I need now is a UTI, so I played it safe.
Today will be about making calls, checking in with both the family doctor and the urologist, trying to understand what comes next. While the intense pain that sent me to the ER has eased, this new situation is far from comfortable. It’s manageable… but only just.
I was prescribed diazepam, which likely helped take the edge off enough to rest. Still, I’ve been cautious, only taking two tablets so far. With such a limited supply, it feels like something to be used thoughtfully rather than routinely.
So here I stand again, between discomfort and relief, between cloud cover and light, waiting to see what breaks through first.
Closing Reflection
Not every morning arrives in brilliance. Some come wrapped in clouds, softened by mist, asking only that we remain present… and patient.
And yet, even now, through the thinnest place along the horizon,the light still finds a way.
And somehow, that’s enough.
The morning didn’t arrive all at once.
It came in layers.
At first, the sky held tight, thick with cloud, heavy and unyielding. A cool blue-gray stretched endlessly overhead, as if the day itself was unsure whether to begin. The trees stood in silhouette, still and watchful… especially that familiar pair, forming the quiet “portal” I’ve come to know so well.
And then… just a hint.
Along the horizon, a thinning. A soft fracture in the clouds. Light, barely there, began to press through.
Not enough to warm the earth. Not enough to change the day. But enough to be noticed.
As the minutes passed, that subtle glow grew stronger, spilling into streaks of gold and amber, slipping beneath the weight of the clouds rather than trying to break them apart. It didn’t fight the darkness… it simply found its way around it.
And somehow, that made it even more beautiful.
By the final moments, the sky seemed to breathe, color stretching wider, the horizon quietly illuminated, while above, the clouds still lingered. Not gone… just softened.
Closing Thought
This morning didn’t promise brilliance. It offered something else instead,
A reminder that light doesn’t always arrive in bold declarations. Sometimes it comes quietly…patiently…finding the smallest opening and choosing to shine anyway.
And standing there, watching it unfold, I realized… that might be enough.
Some mornings don’t arrive with certainty…they unfold slowly, revealing themselves one quiet layer at a time.
The morning began beneath a heavy sky—quiet, uncertain, and slow to reveal itself. The clouds held their ground, stretching across the horizon in muted shades of blue and gray. Even so, something about the air suggested patience might be rewarded.
Between Cloud Cover and Light
What followed was not a breakthrough, but something quieter. The light did not force its way through the clouds, it slipped beneath them, spreading gently across the horizon in soft streaks of gold and amber.
There was no urgency to it. No demand to be seen. Only a quiet persistence… a willingness to wait for its moment.
By 7:18 AM, the morning had begun to shift once again.
The wind, almost unnoticed at first, started to make its presence known. The boughs of the large blue spruce in the center of the yard wrestled about, almost frantically now, while the locust trees, stronger and more grounded in their nature, swayed with a steadier, more deliberate rhythm.
Along the horizon, the color that had so briefly announced itself began to fade, replaced once more by that familiar slate gray I’ve come to know all too well.
The intermittent raindrops I had noticed earlier when I first stepped outside had now become something more definitive.
Not a heavy rain… not even a light one… but something in between.
The drops were now clearly visible, dotting the deck floor, collecting on the tabletop just beyond the patio door, and tracing along the railings. With each passing moment, their presence became more certain.
As their intensity increased, so too did the fading of color along the horizon.
What had once hinted at possibility now softened back into gray.
Then, almost without announcement, the sky settled into itself.
The clouds remained. The rain persisted. The wind moved steadily through the trees. Yet, even in the absence of color, even in the quiet surrender of the light, there remained a sense that something had still been given this morning.
Not brilliance. Not spectacle. But something quieter… and perhaps more honest.
Closing Reflection
Not every morning arrives in brilliance. Some come carried on wind and softened by rain, asking only that we remain present… and patient.
Even when the color fades…even when the sky returns to gray…
There was still a moment, however brief, when the light found its way through.
And somehow… that’s enough.
It’s 8:08 AM, and the morning has shed its quiet skin.
Where earlier there may have been stillness, there is now movement, constant, purposeful, alive. The road behind the house has become a channel of motion. Cars pass in steady intervals, school buses pause and release, and even the slow, deliberate crawl of heavy equipment joins the procession, all of it flowing like a current toward the start of the day.
But it is the wind that commands attention.
It arrives in bursts, unannounced, unapologetic, pushing against everything in its path. The blue spruce bends and recoils, its branches tossed about as if caught in some invisible struggle. Even the locust trees, so often steady and framing the world beyond, now sway with a kind of reluctant participation.
And then… the hillside.
The tall grass does not simply move, it rolls.
Like waves gathering strength before they crest, it rises and falls in long, sweeping motions. One moment drifting upward, the next collapsing downward, shifting left, then right, never settling, never still.
It is the ocean without water.
A tide without shoreline.
A quiet storm moving across land instead of sea.
I can’t help but be drawn into it… watching as each ripple gives way to the next, as if the earth itself is breathing—slow, steady, and endlessly in motion.
The sky above remains gray, almost indifferent, offering none of the color that so often defines these mornings, and yet, it doesn’t matter.
Because today, the beauty is not in the sky.
It is in what moves beneath it.
Closing Reflection
Not every morning arrives in stillness. Some come rushing in, like wind across an open field, like waves that never quite reach the shore, and in their restless motion, they remind us…that even when life feels unsettled, there is rhythm there, a quiet, persistent rhythm, carrying everything forward.
April 14, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
It’s 7:00 AM on Tuesday, April 14.
There wasn’t much to see at the horizon this morning. Around 6:30, a few abbreviated streaks of light pushed through the clouds, brief and uncertain, but nothing that held. Now, just after 7:00, the sky has settled into a flat, sleepy gray. No color. No movement. Just a quiet, overcast start to the day.
The temperature sits at 60°, with a high of 79° expected later, one of those days that may yet find its warmth, even if it doesn’t begin that way.
I spent another night in the recliner.
With the catheter still in place, I wasn’t quite sure how to handle switching over to a nighttime reservoir, so for now, this feels like the safer option. It’s not comfortable, irritating at times, awkward, always there, but compared to the pain I was dealing with before, it’s manageable.
And that, at the moment, is enough.
Yesterday morning around 9:00, I called both my family physician and the urologist. Like so many times before, I wasn’t able to speak directly with anyone, but I left detailed messages explaining everything that’s happened and asked for a return call.
There are still questions.
What precautions should I be taking? What’s the plan moving forward? Most importantly, when and how does this get resolved?
For now… I wait. Yet again...
Time seems to move at its own pace in moments like this. Not always the pace we’d choose, but one we’re left to accept.
The afternoon, however, brought something better.
My daughter stopped by while I was making pizza yesterday afternoon. She had a slice of the one I cut for myself, and I sent her home with a whole pie. A simple moment, but not a small one.
Neal came by last evening as well, bringing food his brother had prepared. I continue to be humbled by the way these young men show up, without hesitation, without expectation, just to check in and make sure I’m okay.
That kind of care… stays with you.
Later yesterday evening, my brother-in-law called. He and his wife had stopped by earlier, rang the doorbell several times, but I didn’t answer. I must have been asleep. He mentioned the front door was open but the screen door was locked, so they left. I reminded him he knew the garage code, but he said they didn’t want to disturb me
.
Even in that… there was thoughtfulness.
A quiet kind of presence, even in absence.
Bob called too, just to check in, asking if I needed anything. I’ve said it before, that man is a saint, and I mean it every time I say it.
The night itself was relatively restful.
Not ideal. Not perfect. But manageable.
For right now, that’s enough to carry me forward.
My focus is simple: get answers, resolve this issue, and move on to the things that still need my attention. This moment feels consuming, but I know it’s just one part of a much larger picture.
Getting older… it’s not for sissies.
I think back to the older members of my family, talking about their aches and pains, their struggles as they aged. I heard them, but I didn’t really understand.
Now I do.
Now I understand the weight behind those words… and the quiet strength it takes to carry it.
Closing Reflection
Some mornings don’t arrive with color or clarity.
They come in shades of gray, quiet, uncertain, and without direction.
But even then, there is light… just not always where we first look for it.
It shows up in a knock at the door. In a phone call that comes right on time. In a shared slice of pizza. In the steady presence of people who care.
The sky may hold back its brightness, but life, in its own way, never does.
Sometimes, that is enough to guide us through the gray.
The sun makes brief appearances, just seconds at a time, pressing through the cover as if testing the waters, only to retreat again behind the gray. It’s there… you can feel it… but it refuses, at least for now, to fully step into the day.
Yet, despite the sky’s reluctance, the earth tells a different story.
Spring is no longer approaching—it’s here.
Flowers are beginning to bloom. Foliage is unfolding at the tops of the trees, slowly forming new canopies.T he grass is growing faster than it can be managed, demanding attention more often with each passing day.
Life, it seems, isn’t waiting for perfect conditions.
It’s simply moving forward.
Even the trees in the distance, still sparse just days ago, are beginning to soften their outlines, trading winter’s stark edges for something fuller, something alive again.
And with all of that renewal… come the less welcome arrivals.
The ants.
Far too many of them have begun wandering through the kitchen and dining room, as if they’ve quietly decided that my home is now part of their spring expansion plan. I’ve seen this before. Each year I try to stay ahead of it, spraying around the perimeter, sealing off entry points, but this time I haven’t gotten to it yet.
And now, they’ve gotten to me.
There’s likely a nest somewhere nearby, and they’ve found a way in, most likely near the patio door., I’ll probably try to take care of it myself first, maybe get outside and treat the perimeter in that area and see if that slows things down.
If not… I may have to call in help.
And that’s something I wrestle with.
I’ve never been particularly fond of using chemicals, especially the stronger ones. I’ve always believed that what we introduce into our environment doesn’t just disappear… it lingers, it affects more than we intend. There’s always that balance to consider, between solving one problem and possibly creating another.
But there are also realities that can’t be ignored.
Some things, if left unattended, only grow worse.
Carpenter ants are one of those things.
Like so many aspects of life, it becomes a matter of weighing the options… choosing the least harmful path… and taking action before the problem takes hold.
It’s a strange contrast, really.
Outside, everything is growing, renewing, pushing forward.
Inside, I’m trying to keep something from doing the same.
Closing Reflection
The sky holds back…but the earth does not.
Even under a blanket of gray,life continues, quietly, steadily, without permission.
It grows where it can, reaches where it must, and finds its way forward…whether we’re ready for it or not.
Maybe there’s something in that,
a reminder that not everything waits for clarity ,not everything needs sunshine to begin.
Some things…just grow anyway.
Perhaps, in ways we cannot always see, love does too, still present, still steady…just beyond the clouds.
April 15, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
It’s 6:31 AM on Wednesday, April 15.
The sky this morning feels heavy… not in a threatening way, but in a quiet, lingering sense of weight. A thick blanket of gray clouds stretches from the horizon upward, softening everything beneath it. No color. No sharp edges. Just a muted world easing into the day.
And yet… it’s warm.
61 degrees already, with a high expected to reach 81. For this time of year in southwestern Pennsylvania, it feels almost out of place, like the season has quietly skipped ahead without waiting for the rest of us to catch up.
I spent another night in the recliner.
Sleep came in fragments, short stretches of rest interrupted by discomfort and that familiar awareness that something just isn’t quite right. By 4 AM, I gave in. Got up. Moved slowly through the house. Cleaned a few dishes. Started the coffee.
Simple things… but grounding.
And now, as has become routine, I find myself standing at the patio door.
Waiting.
Hoping.
There’s always that small part of me that believes the sky might open just enough to offer something, some color, some light, some quiet reward for showing up again. But this morning, the clouds seem content to hold their ground.
Still… if you look closely… there’s a faint glow behind them.
Not enough to call it a sunrise. But enough to remind you that it’s still there.
I’m moving carefully today.
Not out of fear, but out of awareness.
Each step feels deliberate, measured. as if my body is asking for patience after everything it’s been through over the past few days.
The intense pain has passed, and that alone feels significant.
What remains is discomfort… and fatigue… and a kind of cautious respect for what the body has just endured.
But it’s better than where I was.
And sometimes, better is enough.
Standing here, watching the clouds drift slowly across the morning sky, I can’t help but think of Fran.
Mornings like this… we shared so many of them.
Not all were filled with vibrant sunrises or dramatic color. Some were just like this, quiet, overcast, almost reluctant to begin. But she never seemed disappointed. She would notice something in it… something I might have overlooked.
A shift in the light. A feeling more than a sight.
Maybe she’d look at this sky and simply say, “It’s still there.”
Because that’s how she was.
Steady. Reassuring. Present.
It’s now 6:54 AM.
Just moments ago, the quiet of the morning was gently interrupted not by sound, but by presence.
A small group of deer appeared just beyond the edge of the deck, five or six of them.standing still, watching me as I watched them. For a brief moment, we shared the same space, the same awareness.
And then… they were gone.
By the time I reached for the camera and opened the door, they had already made their way across the hillside, disappearing as quietly as they had arrived.
But the moment remained.
It’s now 7:46 AM.
I just came back inside after sitting out at the table on the deck. This time, I wasn’t watching the sky. I was waiting for Neal.
I had set aside a bag of roasted peppers and some corn chips, hoping to catch him on his way to work so he could take them along, whether for lunch or to share later on.
For a while, I thought I might have missed him.
He usually passes earlier, but this morning he was running a bit behind. Still, I waited.
The air was refreshing out there, cool, clean, with just a hint of that coming rain. The clouds remained thick overhead, offering little in the way of sunlight, though the sky continued to brighten just the same.
Even without seeing it…I knew the sun was there.
And then, finally, I saw him.
I called out, handed him the bag, and he was on his way,thanking me as always, and asking if I had enjoyed the food he dropped off Monday evening.
I told him I did.
Truth is, it hit the spot.
And maybe the best part… I didn’t have to cook. Didn’t have to clean up much either. Just something simple, nourishing, and appreciated.
Sometimes that’s more than enough.
Just before he disappeared from view, I managed to capture a photograph.
Not a perfect one.
Branches crossing through the frame… the focus not quite where I would have liked it… the moment already slipping away even as I pressed the shutter.
But in it, there he is.
Backpack over his shoulder. The bag of roasted peppers and corn chips hanging at his side. Walking with purpose toward the school beyond the trees.
A simple moment.
Easy to overlook.
But standing here now, looking at that image, I realize… it holds more than I first thought.
It’s not just a picture of Neal on his way to work.
It’s a picture of connection. Of timing. Of giving and receiving in the quiet rhythm of an ordinary morning.
Fran would have liked this one.
Not because it was perfect…but because it was real.
She always understood that the value of a photograph wasn’t in how clean it looked, but in how honestly it captured what was happening.
And this one… does exactly that.
Not every moment arrives ready to be framed.Some come through branches… slightly blurred… already moving on.
But if you look closely,they carry everything that matters.
A gesture. A connection. A piece of the day shared between two people.
And sometimes…that’s the kind of picture worth keeping.
A couple minutes after he passed, the rain began. Just a few drops… nothing heavy. Enough to send me back inside, where I now stand once again at the patio door, continuing my watch.
Still hoping for a break in the clouds. Still looking for that glimpse of sunlight.
So far… it hasn’t come.
And yet… something has.
A quiet exchange with a passing neighbor. A brief visit from a group of deer. A sky that, even in its heaviness, continues to brighten.
Fran would have understood all of this.
The waiting. The noticing. The small, meaningful exchanges that fill in the spaces between everything else.
She had a way of recognizing that even the most ordinary mornings carry something worth holding onto.
Even when it isn’t obvious.
Not every morning brings the sunrise we hope for. Not every sky opens wide with light.
But sometimes, in its place,we’re given something quieter…
A moment of stillness. A brief connection. A simple act of kindness exchanged.
Maybe that’s the light for today.
Not something that shines from above…but something that moves gently between us.
Final Reflection – The Image Within the Image
Shortly after taking the photograph of the sun finally breaking through the clouds, I noticed the light beginning to filter through the patio doors and into the dining room.
It changed everything.
The same space…but now touched differently.
The table, the chair, the plant… even the coffee cup—each one catching just a bit of that light, as if the room itself had been waiting for it.
I thought to myself…maybe I should take one more photograph.
But this time, from the outside… looking in.
I knew there would be reflections on the glass.
I expected it.
But I took the photograph anyway.
What came back… caught me by surprise.
It wasn’t just one image.
It was three.
The dining room… clearly visible inside.
My reflection in the glass… camera in hand, standing there in the moment,
and beyond that… the landscape behind me—sky, trees, light—still present, layered into the scene.
All of it… existing at once.
Almost like a triple exposure.
But not created…just revealed.
Standing there, looking at it, I realized something.
This wasn’t just a photograph.
It was a moment of overlap.
Inside and outside. Past and present. Observer and participant. All meeting in one frame, and in a way… it felt familiar.
Because that’s what so many of these mornings have become.
I stand at the door… looking outward…but at the same time, I’m aware of everything behind me.
The life that continues. The memories that remain. The quiet presence that never fully leaves.
Fran is in that space too.
Not in a way that can be seen directly…but in the way everything feels connected.
The table we shared. The routines we built. The light that still finds its way into the room.
It all exists together.
Just like that photograph.
Final Closing Reflection:
Sometimes we think we’re capturing a single moment…when in truth, we’re holding several at once.
What’s in front of us. What’s behind us, and where we stand in between.
Maybe that’s what these mornings are becoming, not just something to look at…
but something to step into. Where everything still meets…in the quiet light of a new day.
It’s 5:37 PM.
After making an effort to slow down—at least a little—and address the ongoing ant problem, I spent some time spraying around the patio door. Along the ledger board where the deck meets the house… along the baseboards… and inside near the door itself.
Not exactly how I had planned to spend part of the afternoon, but sometimes the small battles need tending to.
After finishing up, I made my way out to the table on the deck.
Something to drink in hand… taking a moment to pause… and simply look out across the hillside and field behind the house.
And there they were again.
Deer.
A few of them,, standing still, watching, almost as if waiting for the right moment to move across the open space. But they hesitated. Lingering. Not quite ready to commit.
I thought to myself…this might be my chance.
So I went inside to grab the DSLR, hoping that if I was patient enough, I might catch them when they finally made their move.
But by the time I returned…
they were gone.
Back into the woods.
Not quite ready to step out just yet.
And truth be told… I can’t blame them.
At this time of day, there’s still a fair amount of movement around the school behind the house, cars coming and going, people walking, activity that hasn’t quite settled down.
Add to that the warmth, 82 degrees today, and it makes sense that they’d choose to wait a little longer.
It is a beautiful evening though.
There’s a gentle breeze moving through, taking the edge off the warmth. The sun has shifted to the front of the house now, leaving the deck in a comfortable shade.
A good place to sit.
A good place to wait.
Earlier, I put something simple into the oven.
Nothing elaborate… just a leftover chicken sandwich from Sunday and some fries. Enough to get by.
Enough to feel like I’ve taken care of myself, even in a small way.
Sometimes that’s all it needs to be.
I did get a call today from a visiting nurse.
He plans to be here tomorrow morning around 9 AM to help with the catheter situation, something that’s been weighing heavily on my mind.
As I explained everything that’s transpired over the past few days, he seemed genuinely surprised… even a bit taken aback that I had been sent home without much guidance.
That reaction, in a strange way, was both reassuring… and concerning at the same time.
But at least now… there’s a plan.
For the moment, that feels like something to hold onto.
Dinner should be ready now. I’ll head inside, grab a bite to eat… and more than likely find my way back out here again.
Because something tells me…the deer might return.
Some things move on their own time. Not when we’re ready… but when they are.
Maybe the best we can do is sit quietly…be present…and wait for the moment to come back around.
It’s now 6:29 PM.
I’ve made my way back out to the table on the deck.
First thing I did was scan the tree line just beyond the field, almost instinctively now, looking for any sign of movement.
But for the moment…nothing.
No deer.
Still, something tells me that if I’m patient enough, they’ll show up again.
They seem to move on their own schedule… not concerned with mine… not rushed by anything other than their own sense of timing.
So I sit.
And I wait.
While I was inside having something to eat, I received a couple of phone calls.
One from my son down in North Carolina…and one from my daughter just a few miles away.
Both checking in.
Both asking the same simple questions…
“Are you okay?”“Did you eat?”
There’s something about that…
Something quietly comforting.
Not complicated. Not drawn out.
Just a simple reminder that I’m being thought of.
Sitting here now, looking out across the same field, the same tree line, I realize that while I’m waiting for the deer to return…something else has already arrived.
Connection.
In its simplest form.
A phone call. A familiar voice. A moment of concern that reaches across distance.
The breeze is still there…The warmth of the day lingering…The light beginning to soften as evening slowly makes its way in.
And maybe the deer will come back.
Maybe they won’t.
But some evenings don’t ask for much.
A quiet place to sit. A field to watch. A voice on the other end of the line, and the understanding that even in the waiting…you’re not alone.
There was something else that stayed with me this evening.
During the conversation with my son, he asked about putting a deck on the back of his house. Something simple… just a few inches off the ground.
He mentioned those pre-packaged kits you can buy.
I didn’t hesitate.
Told him flat out, don’t go that route.
I’ve seen too many of those over the years.
People thinking they’re getting something simple, something easy… only to end up with materials that don’t quite measure up, designs that fall short, and a project that turns into more trouble than it’s worth.
I’ve been there.
More times than I can count.
Finishing jobs that should have been done right the first time.
As we talked, I found myself doing what I’ve always done. Running through it in my head. Layout… materials… framing… fasteners… time.
Before the conversation was even over, I already knew exactly what it would take. How long it would take. What he’d need. What he didn’t need.
That part hasn’t gone anywhere.
And that’s when it hit me.
I told him…“I wish I was feeling better. If I was, I’d come down and the two of us could probably knock that out in a day or two.”
And I meant it.
But the truth is…
Right now, I can’t.
Not the way I used to.
That’s the part that stays with me.
Not the knowledge. Not the experience. But the realization that the body doesn’t always follow along anymore.
The stamina… the strength… the energy—it’s not what it once was.
And that’s a hard thing to accept.
It’s easy to sit here and let that turn into something else.
To start thinking about everything I used to do. Everything that came naturally. Everything that didn’t require a second thought.
And if I let it go too far… it turns into frustration.
Then annoyance.
Then something a little sharper than that.
But as I sit here now… thinking it through…Something else comes into focus.
That entire deck? I already built it. In my head. Every detail. Every step. Every decision.
Maybe that still counts for something. Maybe tomorrow I’ll put it down on paper.
A material list. A working drawing. Something he can use. Something that carries what I know… even if I’m not the one physically putting it together.
And maybe… if things improve…I’ll still get down there. Maybe not to do all of it.
But to stand alongside him. Guide him. Be part of it in a different way. That might not be what it used to be. But it’s not nothing either.
Closing Reflection:
There are things we used to do without thinking twice.
Then there comes a time when we have to think about them differently.
Not because they’re gone…but because they’ve changed.
Maybe the value isn’t only in what we can still build with our hands…
but in what we can pass on before the work is done.
April 16, 2026
Morning Brew & Reflections
It’s 5:41 AM on Thursday, April 16.
Another night spent in the recliner instead of the bed, but for once, not a bad trade. I managed several hours of what must have been sound sleep judging by the steady stream of dreams that carried me through the night.
I woke around 4 AM, took care of what needed tending, and found myself in the kitchen searching for something simple. A bowl of oatmeal did the trick, nothing fancy, just enough to quiet the hunger and settle things down.
Back to the recliner I went, and surprisingly, back to sleep as well, until about 5.
Now I’m here with a fresh cup of coffee, the patio door cracked open, taking in the morning as it stands.
It’s warm, 65 degrees already. A bit unusual for this hour, especially for mid-April. The horizon is lined with clouds, but directly overhead the sky tells a different story, clear enough to reveal a scattering of stars still holding their ground against the coming light.
Not quite sure what to make of it.
The forecast says clouds and rain later on, but mornings like this don’t always follow instructions.
Even in the darkness, there’s life stirring. The only light comes from the school behind the house, security lights, parking lot glow, but the birds… they’ve already begun.
And not quietly.
It sounds like they’ve gathered from every direction, carrying on in full conversation, chirping, calling, overlapping, like a room full of voices where no one’s quite willing to yield the floor. No agreement, no pause… just a persistent chorus announcing that, one way or another, the day is coming.
And maybe that’s enough for now.
Even before the light arrives, the world begins to speak, sometimes in harmony, sometimes in noise, but always as a reminder that life moves forward, whether we’re ready or not.
In the quiet between dreams and daylight, I can almost feel you there, somewhere in the rhythm of it all… in the warmth, in the stillness, in the voices that refuse to be silent.
It’s now 5:54 AM.
To my surprise, the first signs of light have already begun to show themselves.
Not the bold kind… not yet.
Just a pale blue glow stretching quietly along the horizon, gently outlining everything in silhouette. The trees, those familiar shapes I look to every morning stand in contrast now, dark against that softening sky, as if they’ve been patiently waiting for this exact moment.
It’s subtle… easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it.
But it’s there.
And the birds, well, now it makes a little more sense.
All that chatter from earlier… all that noise that seemed almost out of place in the darkness, it wasn’t confusion at all.
They knew.
They felt it before it could be seen.
Before the light ever reached my eyes, they were already announcing its arrival.
The light doesn’t arrive all at once… it begins quietly, almost unnoticed, but everything around it seems to understand long before we do.
Maybe it’s like that with love too… never really gone, just waiting, just beyond the horizon, felt before it’s seen. The portal stands still in silhouette, but I know what’s coming, light finding its way through, just as it always does.
I didn’t see it at first… but the world around me did, and maybe there’s something to be learned in that.
It’s 7:32 AM, and after sitting outdoors at the table with a cup of coffee in hand, watching the horizon, I can say that the sun’s arrival today was subtle, to say the least.
Not that it wasn’t something to behold… it just wasn’t what I expected when I first glanced out much earlier this morning.
The start of the day felt more like a gentle awakening than a grand entrance. No rush. No urgency. Just a quiet nudge… as if the morning itself was in no particular hurry to get where it was going.
Maybe there’s something to that.
Sometimes the day doesn’t arrive with brilliance or bold color. Sometimes it simply shows up… softly… steadily… asking nothing more than for you to notice.
I suppose I’ll be heading back into the kitchen now to refill the coffee cup and begin preparing for the arrival of the visiting nurse at 9:00 AM. A new part of this journey… one I’m still trying to make sense of.
Hopefully, just a temporary chapter. The more temporary, the better.
And as the light came in quietly this morning, without fanfare or demand, I’m reminded that not every step forward needs to be strong…sometimes it just needs to be taken.
By 7:43 AM, the sky begins to let go of what little resistance it had left.
The clouds that once softened the morning are now drifting apart,quietly surrendering their hold on the horizon.
In their absence, the sun no longer needs to ask permission…it simply arrives.
Still not harsh… still not overwhelming…just steady, confident, and fully present.
Midday Reflections: Care, Frustration, and Small Acts of Kindness
It’s 1:25 PM, and the visiting nurse has long since come and gone, arriving around 9:00 this morning and staying until about 10:30.
He managed to fill me in on quite a few details I wasn’t aware of, and I’m grateful for that. Some of what he shared may seem small on the surface, but had I not known, it could have easily led to a very unpleasant experience. That alone made the visit worthwhile.
Just before he arrived, my daughter called to say she was coming over. I told her there was really no need, but she insisted, and I’m glad she did. We both listened closely, asked questions, and tried to absorb as much as we could. Some answers came easily, others not so much, but he promised to follow up on anything he couldn’t address today.
After he left, we sat outside on the deck, soaking in the sun and talking, about life in general, and occasionally about things a little closer to home. Around noon, I offered her something to eat, and we continued our conversation until she headed back home sometime around 12:00 or so.
Before leaving, she mentioned that she and her husband would be back later this evening with a pizza from a local restaurant. I told her it wasn’t necessary, that she didn’t need to go through the trouble or the expense, but, as usual, she insisted. So it looks like tonight will be a pizza night.
At some point during all this, my neighbor Bob showed up once again and quietly went about cutting my grass. I stepped outside for a moment to thank him and told him I had a couple of pizzas in the freezer for him that I had prepared last week, just to stop by when he was done and take them whenever he liked.
About an hour later, I realized the mower had gone silent. I went out to check, hoping I hadn’t missed him, but he was already gone. Now I’ll have to make the trip over myself, either later today or tomorrow, depending on how things go. Walking isn’t much of an option right now, not with the extra gear I’m carrying, so it’ll have to be a short drive.
Still no word from the urologist.
That’s beginning to wear on me. It’s been nearly five days since my visit to the ER, where I honestly thought I’d be admitted,and despite multiple calls to the office, there’s been no response. At some point, it stops being patience and starts becoming concern. I’m beginning to think it may be time to look elsewhere for care, because this situation isn’t even coming close to what I would consider acceptable.
Around 1:15, I stepped back outside for a few minutes.
The sky had opened wide by then, deep blue stretching in every direction, scattered clouds drifting without urgency. Two tall trees stood off in the distance, wrapped and tangled in their own history, yet still reaching upward as if nothing had the final say.
And closer to home, the dogwood…
Now just about fully in bloom.
Up close, the petals weren’t flawless. There were small imperfections, edges softened, a few marks of weather and time, but somehow that made them feel more real. Not staged. Not perfect. Just… present.
Some things arrive with answers. Others arrive with silence.
Today brought something different, people who showed up, care that clarified, kindness that asked for nothing in return.
And just outside, under a sky that refused to hurry, the trees kept reaching…and the dogwood opened anyway, not waiting for things to be resolved, not waiting for conditions to be right…
just opening, because it was time.
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