Walking with Mom

 His kids and grandkids brought him to a special place in his heart where the trees reach to the heavens, and autumn leaves drift to the ground to join others that will soon be buried in a blanket of white. The smell of campfires and roasted hot dogs is pleasing, as the kids jump in the piles of fallen leaves piled high with a rake Dad brought along for just that reason.

They have been coming to this park since he was a toddler, with his first memory being Mom holding his hand and walking through the forest as she pointed out different names of the trees. But all he wanted to do was run and jump into the piles like his older siblings were doing. She let go of his hand, and he took off as fast as his little legs would run, falling more than once but finally reaching the pile and throwing himself into it, laughing and throwing leaves at everybody around him.
As time marched on, they went to the park on any given autumn Sunday with sunny skies and cool autumn breezes. The grill heated up as Dad announced it was finally time to cook. Mom brought out salads and cut-up fruit, as well as her famous baked beans, which Dad would heat before serving. There were cheese platters and crackers as well as plenty of chips and dips, making for a feast fit for a king.
When everybody had their fill, Dad would fall asleep for a nap as he always did, and Mom and he went for a walk holding hands until something caught his eye and found him running ahead, stooping down to look at a small snake. Will it bite me? he asked, and she carefully picked it up very gently, showing his markings that, in this case, was just a harmless garden snake out for a stroll like them.
As kids do, he grew up and had a girlfriend whom he brought with him to a Sunday picnic to meet everyone, and from the look on Mom's face approved of his choice. After eating, he took his mom's hand and walked into the forest, naming the trees and going back in time to when he jumped into his first pile of leaves or caught his first snake. Their walks were just as important as any other family tradition that was held close to their hearts.
Many years passed, and circumstances prohibited some Sunday picnics, but Mom always insisted on just one more in October, when the colors of autumn were those of an artist's palette she had to see once more. My sisters made all the food like Mom once did, and Dad passed on the cooking duties to my son while he listened to the game on his radio, and Mom told him to lower the volume as she couldn't hear herself think. After a while, Mom asked me if I was ready for our walk, which surprised me a little, as she needed a cane to get around, but she was determined, so off we went slowly into the forest, holding hands one more time.
As life has it, we all leave this world, and we rely on our memories to hold on to special people and things we never will forget. To me, one of my most vivid memories is my walks with Mom on a sunny autumn day, holding hands and being loved. So here I am again with a lot of laugh lines on my weathered face, a walking stick gifted to me way back when, and one last walk with Mom in spirit but all very real. When I pass, I've instructed my children to scatter my ashes in that beautiful place where my soul will rest, and Mom looks over me with an outstretched hand.

Mike  2026
Mike  2026

Where the sun, meets the sand

 With every crunch of sand, every gentle roll of a wave, I'm at the doorstep of heaven. A crimson sun hisses as it meets the water, or so I'd like to think. The fish come closer as the beach is empty of kids with plastic shovels and pails as they forage for their supper under the watchful eyes of Neptune. Dolphins leap high above the sea as if taunting anyone to get closer, performing their magic as one lonely man claps his hands, asking for more.

The end of day makes way for the darkness, and the sea creatures come alive in a storybook being read to children around a bonfire. Little did they know they were just far enough away from the shores not to be seen by just anyone. The spirits of many a pirate stand ready to steal more bounty as a group of mermaids dances to the music of the deep. King Neptune himself may not be visible, but with every wave that rolls past him, a baby turtle is welcomed into his arms, where they will be watched over and learn the ways of the mighty ocean.
Just beyond the darkness, where a light shows the way to heaven, so shines the light of the sea as the moonlight illuminates the way towards eternal joy and freedom to swim as you were meant to among your new friends swimming beside you.No fear of propellers or net fishermen, no harpoons or traps to capture your spiny friends. No pieces of trash or oil from passing ships, no party balloons trapping your brothers and sisters.No more broken bottles to litter the sandy beaches, no thoughtless beachgoers who leave their garbage behind.
With every crunch of sand, every gentle roll of a wave, I'm at the doorstep of my heaven that lies just past the horizon where the sun sizzles as it touches the sea.

Mike 2026

Mike  2026

County fair memories

 Lollipop pops as big as my head, the not quite tall enough sign at the roller coaster. Sticky hands, blue or pink lips depending on the cotton candy you ate. The smell of peanuts roasting and the never-ending popcorn popping. Midway games and someone shouting they had won, hoisting a four-foot purple teddy bear he gave to his girlfriend. Water guns shooting into a clown's mouth, and the winner got a choice of cheap toys. Moms wiping hands and mouths, a never-ending battle as Dad handed out tickets for the rides, like Boats going around in a water-filled pool. A little kids' Ferris wheel filled with happy faces as parents snapped pictures, sure that one would be on the family Christmas cards.

As darkness fell, the entire place became a rainbow of colored lights, some blinking, others not. Screaming people on the mother of all coasters lit up with strobe lights, making you wonder if that's what a bad trip felt like. Hot dogs and greasy fries smothered with ketchup for dinner, leaving their mark on every kid's shirt. And just like that, the fair announced it was closing for the night, promising to be open tomorrow, as parents took their kids' sticky hands, some carried by tired dads and moms walking slowly with tired kids in tow. Two yellow stuffed monkeys and a bag of half-eaten peanuts would go home and be proudly displayed on a bedroom shelf.
The ride home had hardly begun, and three tired kids were asleep before the lights of the fair were behind them. Mom and Dad talked quietly, looking back at their kids' smiling faces, knowing this day would always be remembered, even in sleep. Back home, Dad carried the little ones inside as the older of the bunch walked slowly, dragging two yellow monkeys behind him. No teeth brushing tonight, no stories to be read, or glasses of water, just a deep sleep dreaming of colored lights and never-ending popping of popcorn—all in all, the perfect day at the fair.
Mike  2026

The park bench

 He remembered sitting on a park bench eating an ice cream cone with his grandma. Decades have passed since that time, with the old bench replaced by a new one, a magnet for anyone with a pocketknife to carve out their initials, hearts, and professions of love. It was like a rite of passage, handed down and never forgotten as time made room for one more young lover's expression of first love.

He remembered his crudely carved heart done in the darkness of an empty park years ago, his own heart beating fast in fear of being caught, but never was. And like many others, an X carved through the heart meant a breakup and a message to others that they were over and available.
Those years of innocence were so different than today's, when a guy carved his feelings, and girls drew hearts on book covers for everyone to see. It was a time when milkshakes were shared and holding hands in the school hallways was a big deal. It was skipping last period and going to the park, where first kisses left you breathless and speechless, as you unveiled the heart you had carved for the world to see.
As my kids grew up, all the old benches were replaced with composite ones, making them impossible to carve on, so colored markers became the jackknives, and the legacy continued. Kids still hold hands and experience a first kiss; they still sit on a bench looking for an X, but more important is knowing their love can be expressed with a magic marker, whether time will erase it or not.
Mike  2026

Atomic fireballs

 He was just a kid who lived in the country. Growing up around family and a couple of good friends. He'd sit on the wooden crate in front of the general store, tossing stones at a stray cat, never intending to hit it, just to scare it a bit. He was going to meet up with Billy and John, his only real friends, but neither showed up, thinking they probably got tied up with more chores. He fumbled in his overall pockets, searching for the quarter he'd earned from Mrs. Jefferies, whose husband of sixty years passed on a while back. He'd drop in on her every so often as she always had something needed done. He went straight into the store to the orange-colored cooler, where bottles of five different flavors were kept cold and frosty. He chose a Dr. Pepper today and a bag of peanuts that he'd pour into the bottle, making a Georgia milkshake. It erupted like a volcano, something he learned from his older brother. Thing was, by the time it was done erupting, there wasn't anything left to drink, so he didn't do that much anymore unless he was trying to impress Betty Joe, the girl of his dreams who couldn't care less about his stupid tricks.

He had a seat on the old crate again, this time kicking a can of empty beans until it landed under the sheriff's car, and he was sure enough not going under there to get it. The sheriff came out of the store with a bottle of Coke, chugged it down, and handed the empty bottle to him, saying he could get the two-cent deposit and get himself two cents' worth of candy. That was an easy decision as he set two atomic fireballs on the counter along with the empty bottle. Back outside and sitting on the crate, the challenge to himself began. The object was to suck on the fireball until your mouth couldn't take it anymore. When your lips felt like two red peppers, and your throat began to close up. What seemed like forever but was really only a minute or so until the darn thing quit burning and was reduced to a marble-sized ball that could safely be eaten until it was gone. He put the other fireball in his pocket for another time, knowing he didn't want to go through that again, at least not for a while.
He looked inside the store at the Coca-Cola clock, which showed him it was getting late and that it was time to get home before his dad finished plowing and before Mom rang the supper bell. Just as he began his walk home, he saw Mr. Larry's old pickup truck headed for the store, which meant one thing: he was running late as Mom's dinner bell rang at four thirty sharp. You see, Mr. Larry was what my mom called a creature of habit. Every day except Sunday, he left his job at the mill at exactly four oclock. It took him fifteen minutes to reach the store where he'd buy a loaf of bread and a six-pack of a cheap beer. Then he'd head straight home, arriving at four thirty-five on the dot. As he pulled away from the store, Mr. Larry leaned out the window without slowing down, asking him if he needed a ride. Get in the back, he told him again, never slowing down. It was a bumpy road, especially when Mr. Larry hit every pothole in sight. He yelled out the window and told him to go ahead and jump off, as he wasn't going to stop. So, with no other options, he jumped out, rolling through the dirt and coming to rest at the gate. He jumped to his feet and ran down the road leading to the farm, where he saw his dad putting the tractor in the barn and, seconds later, the supper bell ringing. It was a close call, but he made it in time, and that's what mattered. He asked his mom why Mr. Larry kept such a tight schedule, and she answered that he had never missed an episode of Wheel of Fortune since it began airing. She said he was in love with Vanna White like so many men were. She may be hot, he thought to himself, but as for him, he'd rather get his hot from an atomic fireball at least for the time being.

Mike  2026

Another life, maybe.

 All of us, at one time or another, believe we've lived more than once. We see something never seen before, giving us chills as it all becomes so clear we've been there before.

I believe I was a fighter pilot in ww2 a product of a military father who made my decision to join up a no-brainer. I went to flight school and graduated in just enough time to witness Pearl Harbor in such detail that I still can close my eyes and see myself in the cockpit, taking off from a crude runway and looking down at the destruction burning a hole in my heart.
I was 25 years old and quickly discovered I had a talent. My skills as a pilot were well known, with 30 confirmed kills, each a painted lady on the fuselage of my plane. I could feel the plane as we took part in dogfights, watching as black smoke filled the sky, forcing me to fly blindfolded at times but always breaking through in time to shoot down another enemy plane.
I witnessed one of ours go down in flames, and I prayed for their souls but was never distracted from my mission. Outnumbered until reinforcements arrived, we fought in the sky blanketed by darkness, our ammo running low but our spirits high as enemy planes crashed into the sea below us. Tired and wounded, we refueled and flew back into the battle to help our brothers alone without us to protect them.
When it was over, we limped back, our planes riddled with hits, engines overworked, and nothing shy of a miracle we survived. I can smell the war on my flight suit, a smell of fuel everywhere and of death, as one of my brothers crashed before my eyes in a fireball of flames. It's all so clear to me today; the panic and the realism burn inside me as I take to the skies over and over until it all disappears, and I'm back home safe and sound.
I was never a pilot, or, for that matter, never served one day in the military. Not by choice, mind you, but a medical condition disqualified me from joining up. I ask myself how, after all this time, I remember everything in vivid detail. The sounds of my plane, the explosions on the ships in the harbor, the choking smell of jet fuel, and a picture of my wife next to the fuel gauge, even though I never wed.
I can only come up with one reason that I had lived another life, and yes, that sounds unbelievable, and maybe it is, but to me I believe such things do happen, and sometimes we're shown that previous life in details too great to ignore. A dream, some ask; I don't think so more of a portal into another time, where we find ourselves in death reaching for another time, another chance, or maybe just another version of ourselves.
Mike  2026

Whispers at the head stones

 When I go home for a visit, I spend time with those who have passed before me, going back from decades to generations. I'll sometimes have to search certain areas obscured by weeds and grass, and others that are kept up by those left behind, maintaining a peaceful spot where heaven's light shines down upon them as they talk to the departed.

My Mom is laid to rest on a slight hill that seems to grow steeper with every year I age. I'll catch my breath and tell her about my life, how big my grandkids are, and how I remember her and miss her every day. I always bring her some lilacs, as they were her favorite. In the quiet of the day, I touch her headstone and whisper my love for her, a love that time can't change or grow less. Saying goodbye breaks another piece of my heart as I walk down the hill, leaving tears that follow me always.
It's easy to find my dad, who is laid to rest in a military section of the graveyard. He rests among the dozens of his brothers-in-arms who fought the great battles of wars and conflicts, some who died in battle while others lived a life filled with hidden pain. I speak to him with the respect he deserves and forgiveness for his anger that was fueled by the bottle and his endless nightmares that often woke me in the darkness of night as I held my pillow over my head to drown out a voice I didn't recognize. I'll brush away the weeds to clearly see his name and salute him, knowing that would make his day.
I make my way across the hundreds of graves and come upon a beautiful place, the resting place for a father and a son lying side by side for eternity. As I sit on a small bench, I can hear them debating on one topic or another, both deep in thought and planning their next move in never-ending chess games. I see their faces as I remember two scholars, a father and son who loved each other more than any lifetime could understand.
My final stop is that of my first love. Taken from this world too soon, leaving a trail of broken hearts, none more broken than my own. She lies beside her parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles, together forever, with her name, Tamara Star, etched into the stone that I trace with my finger, hoping a speck of heavenly dust remains with me forevermore. I can't stop my tears as her beautiful face smiles down on me and eases the pain I've felt for decades. I often sit in silence, remembering her in every way I can and knowing words aren't needed; just a little more time until we meet again.
My baby sister, as well as my best friend, chose cremation; their remains on shelves are a constant reminder of their presence and importance, always in view and always in my heart. I speak to them as I did the others who, in so many ways, touched me in ways only I can feel. I will find myself at the ocean, staring out to an endless sea where my best friend blows with grains of sand at the ocean's bottom as I cup a handful of damp sand, wondering if it's him telling me everything is okay. I find myself hoping he will watch over my sister among the grains of sand and stay by her side, like I picture him doing.
Death isn't just a time of mourning; it's a place of comfort for those like me who never really said goodbye just one-way conversations between a man and his whispers to headstones that sometimes whisper back.
Mike  2026