after the storms of life

The Silence After the Storm

Sunday, November 23, 2025

5 AM. The coffee cup in my hand is warm, but the air drifting off the bayou this morning carries a distinct chill. It’s Sunday. Usually, this is a day of rest, a day where the rhythms of the swamp slow down even further than their usual leisurely pace. But today, the silence feels different. It feels heavier.

I found myself walking to the porch with the coffee pot, instinctively reaching for a second mug. It’s a muscle memory I haven’t been able to shake yet—the habit of pouring a cup for Uncle Jerry. I stopped halfway to the cabinet, the realization hitting me like a physical blow. I only needed one cup. That moment of hesitation, that small stumble in the routine, is a jarring reminder of how much the landscape of my life has changed.

Sunday mornings were Jerry’s time. He would sit on the porch, listen to the church bells ringing in the distance across the water, and tell stories about the sermons he’d heard forty years ago, usually embellishing the preacher’s fire and brimstone for dramatic effect. Without his voice, the church bells just sound lonely.

It’s a strange juxtaposition—the digital world is buzzing with your comments and excitement about the new book (thank you for that, truly), but my physical world is starkly quiet. I am learning that grief isn't a straight line; it's a series of peaks and valleys. Yesterday was a peak—a moment of triumph where imagination won out over sorrow. Today is the valley. It’s a quiet walk through the reality of loss.

But as I sit here, watching the mist curl off the black water, I’m realizing the valley isn’t necessarily a bad place. It’s where the soil is rich. It’s where the roots grow deep.

So today, I am not fighting the silence. I am sitting with it. I am letting the creative high settle into a steady hum. I’m listening to the wind in the cypress trees, grateful for the work that keeps my mind busy, but profoundly missing the audience who used to cheer me on from the rocking chair next to mine.

Your for now Captain Hedges