Small wisps of
smoke move out of my mouth into the stagnant air in a room marked as the place
I tell my tales. The walls are covered with pictures in dusty frames with
shadowed figures of times gone by but hardly forgotten. I often get close to
one and reach back in my memories re-living the moment the picture was snapped
and frozen for all time. I hear the voices and smile knowing someday I will
hear them again. Their mostly gone now and those remaining are old with only a
few smiles left. These are the pictures of my life and the people that made lasting
memories for me to look at whenever I chose to. I often wonder if at the time
they were posing they were thinking who would see this in sixty years? I have
an entire house to put my stories on paper, but I write in a small add on room
with low ceilings and poor lighting, a room where every inch of wall space is
covered with my memories, my life, my snapshots of happiness.www.michaeloconnorwriter.com
www.facebook.com/mikeoconnor-author
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