As a new season begins, so do all the projects and tasks that come with it. Summer used to mean the pool was sparkling and ready, the grass was trimmed with care, the deck was inviting, and cold drinks were waiting. There was always laughter—crabs on the table, kids splashing in the water, baseball in the background, and friends filling every space with joy.
But this is the first summer without my husband.
I’ve already made it through fall, winter, and spring. Though “survived” may be too generous of a word. Some days, survival has looked like nothing more than waking up and simply trying to keep going.
A new season brings with it new challenges, new to-do lists, and new anxieties. These are things I’ve never had to manage before on my own.
The truth is—the pool isn’t ready. Scott passed away before it was winterized, and now I’m here, unsure of where to even start. The deck doesn’t look the same without his touch. I’m trying my best to keep the kitchen and dining room guest-ready, the yard neat and trimmed, the front door open to friends. But most days, it feels like I’m failing.
Still, I remind myself:
I made it through fall.
I survived winter—cold nights, snowstorms, power outages. I figured out how to keep the house warm, collected my own wood, even used a bit of science to melt ice without needing to shovel.
Spring came with bittersweet milestones. It was the season we both had birthdays—just three weeks apart, always turning the same age for a little while. I longed for the sun on my face again, but that warmth came wrapped in fresh waves of grief.
And now here I am. Summer. Our season. Our anniversary season. Last summer was our final anniversary together.
This year, I’m fighting to bring it all back. To hear the joyful noise again. To fill the yard with the smell of seafood and sunscreen. To see kids jumping into the pool and hear the gentle clink of cold drinks shared on the deck.
And maybe—just maybe—as the summer breeze brushes across my cheek, I’ll hear his laughter again. Somewhere in the echoes of this space, in the rhythm of a season we built together, I’ll feel Scott’s memory settling in with the same warmth I’m still learning to carry.
Widow 101 