July 16, 2025

The Left Wall


 

Dear Jennie,

I know you loved living in that cozy studio by the creek. The morning light streaming through the kitchen window, the way the leaves would dance across the sill in autumn, and of course, that one long wall on the left where our memories lived. I remember how carefully you placed those frames—photos of us grinning on our first date, that awkward but sweet shot of us holding hands outside the coffee shop, and the Sunday morning brunch when we met each other’s families for the first time.

That wall told our story. Remember Yosemite? We climbed Half Dome, and you said my legs looked like spaghetti halfway up, but we made it—smiling at the top with peanut butter smeared on our fingers. Then there was Joshua Tree, dodging Cholla cactus needles like dancers in a prickly ballet. We hugged giants in the Sequoias, laughed over cold-cut grinders in Zumwalt Meadow, and wandered quiet among the redwoods, whispering like we were in a cathedral.

Oh, and Death Valley—you did fry that egg on a rock, and I did pant like an overheated basset hound atop Elephant Rock. Fair is fair.

I’m writing you now from our new two-story home. You were gone when we made the move—visiting your parents in Arkansas. It gave me time to get things set up: my computer systems are humming in their new home office, tucked in the small room you say needs a bigger window. I placed my workstation in the corner of the garage, beside that pane of glass that looks out over the backyard—good view of the raccoons and the occasional fox. And yes, your car fits just fine.

The left wall here—well, it has become our wall again. Every photo, every adventure, every smile—it's all up. It’s just taller now, like the ceilings here. Like there’s more space for what’s next. I know the old place felt like a scrapbook you could walk through. I didn’t mean to dismantle that—I only wanted us to have more pages to write on.

I think maybe you feel I moved us without asking. And maybe I did rush. I miss you, and I hate thinking I made you feel like those memories meant less than they did.

Did you get a chance to visit Holla Bend? I read it’s a hotspot for Sandhill Cranes this time of year. Tell your folks I said hello. And in proper Arkansas style, “Bless your heart, y’all.”

Come home soon, Jennie. The house is big, but it’s not home without you.

Love always,
Herald

 


Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Image
  "Veranda, Marie, and the Crow" By Harry Arabian A soft vibration on my wrist stirred me from sleep. My iWatch, gentle as ever, reminded me it was time to move. I sat up at the edge of the bed, still caught in that tender fog between sleep and waking. Outside, birds chirped into a July Fourth morning, clear and golden, the kind of summer light that promises celebration and perhaps a bit of mischief. After brushing my teeth and a quick wash, a light grooming, I made my way to the kitchen. The scent of early sun on the window glass paired well with the idea of coffee. Marie was already in the living room, upright and alert, watching the local news. She’d been up for hours, eyes on the world while I dreamt. A parade of town names scrolled from the reporter’s mouth—Wellesley, Lexington, Mashpee—each paired with promises of parades, concerts, and fireworks. I reached for my favorite Veranda Blend pod and dropped it into the Keurig. The familiar hum filled the kitchen. ...
Read more
Image
*** "Twin Spotlights" is a moving story about recognition, reconciliation, and resilience. It speaks to professionals and dreamers alike—those who have built careers in silence, shaped technologies in solitude, and who sometimes forget that behind every system diagram lies a person who once skipped a family dinner to finish a schematic. The story ultimately affirms that while we may not always control time, we can still shape meaning—and that, in itself, is the most enduring innovation. *** " Twin Spotlights" By Harry Arabian On a quiet summer morning, the weight of the inbox felt no different than usual—until it wasn’t. Two envelopes, one marked with the sleek STMicroelectronics logo and the other emblazoned with Northeastern University’s seal, lay atop a cluttered desk of datasheets, circuit boards, and half-finished coffee. The first letter brought a wide, proud smile. STMicro, a company whose components he had woven into the very DNA of his engineering career...
Read more
Image
  The Puerto Vallarta Welcome By Harry Arabian It was a poor decision to acquire this beachfront property in Puerto Vallarta. Looking back, we were misled—not by agents or contracts, but by our own emotions. The breeze that swept in from the Pacific, the hypnotic rhythm of cobblestone streets under our sandals, the mariachi horns echoing from vibrant cantinas, and the promise of our silver years played like a dream too perfect to question. We thought we had found our final nest, the long-awaited perch after a life of snow shovels, tax season dread, and Boston bustle. The idea was simple: trade Red Sox for sun hats, cold winters for cold fruit punches sipped from a second-floor balcony overlooking the ocean. After a long flight from Boston and a cab ride through the sun-soaked neighborhoods of Vallarta, we finally returned to our building—the one we now legally called home. Our bags sat proudly at the curb like obedient dogs. The taxi engine idled while gulls wheeled above ...
Read more