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Today, I felt your absence in every quiet corner of the house. The sun came in through the window just the way you liked it—golden and soft—and for a moment I looked to your spot on the floor, expecting to see you curled there, half-asleep but keeping an eye on me like always. But of course, you weren’t.

October 6, 2025 I think back to a memory from several years back. I decided to share it once again in honor of my son and his strength and courage... in honor of my memories. Isn’t it incredible how a single object can hold a million memories? It can bring them back in an instant—like a wave crashing over you, unexpected and full of feeling. Here’s a small fact about my family: we love blankets. Especially in the colder months, they’re everywhere—on couches, chairs, beds—read

Sometimes I forget how different the world used to be. Then a song comes on the radio—maybe The Cure, maybe R.E.M., or the haunting echo of Siouxsie and the Banshees—and I’m suddenly 13 again, the key to the house jangling in my backpack, walking home alone after school with nobody waiting but the TV and a box of cereal.

Fall has a way of slipping in quietly—one morning, the air just feels different. Not cold exactly, but crisp, like it’s been filtered overnight. I stepped outside today and it hit me all at once: that familiar scent of dried leaves and distant woodsmoke, the kind that makes you pause and breathe a little deeper. The sky was that perfect shade of autumn blue, stretched wide and clean, like it had been rinsed clear of summer’s haze.

Today felt like the end. Not just of the day, or the weekend, but of the season—the kind of ending you don’t really say out loud, but feel deep in your chest.