John & Patricia Greenwood

June 15, 1974

St. Joseph’s Catholic Church, Greenfield Center, NY

It may seem unusual to be writing about your deceased spouse less than 24 hours after she left you to fend for yourself, but here I sit with a clipboard, writing pad, and a Bic Medium, sharing my grief with the world—and that’s the point.

I woke up this morning, March 29, 2026, a widower. The house is dark. The only sound you can hear is the ticking of her obsession with placing a clock in every corner of the house. They are not expensive antique clocks; they are clocks from all walks of the clock family: cheap $6.00 clocks from Walmart, tabletop clocks from Amazon, and the large pendulum wall-clock from Service Merchandise we snagged on sale when the boys still had feet in their pajamas. Add another dozen clocks embedded in the electronics from one end of the house to the other, and you’re going to encounter a constant reminder of your better half. The clocks and gentle ticking are only one example of the footprints left behind.

I felt a need to get my raw emotions down on paper while my wife Patricia aka (Pat, Patti, Babe, Bubbles, Cupcake)’s essence remained in the stillness of our starter/retirement home.

There are so many reminders swirling around 378 Northern Pines that I don’t feel alone. She’s still here. I can hear her voice. I can hear her popping her Nantucket Blend in the Keurig. The furnace kicks on, and I know she’ll be warmer soon. Over the last few years, she was always cold. I’d keep turning up the thermostat until she was okay. Minutes later, I was peeling off my 20-year-old Stewart’s sweatshirt.

She was so tiny at the end, but she was stronger than anyone I’d ever known. I could see her sitting there, scared and brave, wrapped in her LLBean bathrobe, sipping that Nantucket Blend and watching the Steamship Authority’s livestream of the Vineyard Haven Ferry Terminal in Woods Hole, Massachusetts. There was something about watching the ferries come and go, load and unload, that put her in a place of comfort. No noise, no yipping, no yapping, just watching people, cars, and trucks come and go. She loved J.P. Noonan truck drivers and the skill with which they navigated those eighteen-wheelers in and out of such a confined space.

Patricia was big on keeping our home warm, both with light and temperature. Every room had some form of complementary lighting. As the Yankee Candle craze slipped away, she began to place small battery-operated tea lights and strings of lighted garland throughout the house. Calming ambiance at every turn, at every hour of every day. The garlands and curtains in our home changed faithfully with the seasons, always matching the theme and color palette of the holiday in the batter’s box.

COVID and health issues dampened vacation and travel plans, but it didn’t matter. Every time we pulled into the driveway after our BJ’s, Hannaford, Market 32, Fresh Market, Home Depot, CVS Tour, we’d look at each other and in unison say, “I love coming home!”

I’m sitting here now, warm, content, peaceful, overcome with gratitude for every one of those fifty-one plus years with my wife by my side. Judging by the stream gushing down my cheeks right now, this isn’t going to be easy. Am I grief-stricken, more than anyone could possibly fathom? Am I going to be lonely? Not a chance, because everywhere I turn, my beautiful wife Patricia has blessed me with a reminder of just how lucky I was to have responded, “I do.”

Love, John

aka Jack, Jackie, Butter Buns