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

Pumpkin patches and more

 I remember walking through a pumpkin patch that seemed to go on forever.  Odd-shaped gourds destined to sit on a porch with carved-out faces, often from the imaginations of children. I recall drawing the face with a crayon, then Dad taking charge of the knife and carving it exactly the way I drew it. Mom would soak the seeds in saltwater, then bake them to a golden brown, and my sisters and I ate them until our lips were parched. On Halloween night, the candles were lit, and the ghoul-ish faces came to life as another memory was added to my childhood book of smiles. It was always a little sad to see the once mighty pumpkin reduced to mush and discarded. Still, I only had to wait another year for a trip to the pumpkin patch, when I'd search row after row for that perfect pumpkin whose face I would color in crayon. Dad said maybe next year, but not today, as he took the knife and began carving upside-down triangles and jagged teeth sure to scare even the bravest kid. I never liked the day after, when pumpkins sat atop trash cans, deformed and scorched by the candle's flame, looking like defeated soldiers on a battlefield. But on the upside, we had pillowcases full of candy that my sisters and I would trade for Kit Kats, Snickers, pieces of Double Bubble gum, and more. Our thoughts of Thanksgiving and the grand daddy of all Christmas were on our minds. It was fun being a kid back then, when boxes filled the shelves in the attic, each marked for the occasion, filled with costumes to be handed down and paper turkeys cut out using your hand as a template. Box after box of Christmas decorations, filled with ornaments handed down from generation to generation, and dozens of handmade ornaments made by the kids that were hung on the tree every year. But the most important boxes contained hundreds of strings of colored lights Dad would spend hours untangling, swearing this was the last year he'd do it. But there he was, up on a ladder turning our house into a winter wonderland like he's been doing since I can remember.

I count my blessings for the childhood years I shared with my family, and over the years I've found myself doing the same things for my children and grandkids. We've even started our own traditions, like sitting around a campfire on Christmas Eve, drinking hot chocolate, and singing holiday songs. We invite neighbors over to share in our bounty, and every kid exchanges small homemade gifts with one another. We still visit that pumpkin patch where we let the grandkids run from row to row in search of the perfect pumpkin to draw faces on with a crayon, and I finally get the honor of using the knife to carve exactly what they drew, no matter how they looked.

Mike  2026

Dads dream boat

 I was about twelve when my dad brought home a big boat on a trailer, towed by a tow truck. It was quite the show as neighbors watched it slowly make its way through turns and park in the driveway. From the look on my mom's face, this was one of those times when Dad preferred to ask for forgiveness rather than permission. The boat was in fair condition but would need some work to make it seaworthy. As luck would have it, one of the neighbors was a well-known carpenter with years of experience reconditioning boats. I later learned that the carpenter and my dad had met up at the marina on several occasions to plan something that wouldn't break the bank.

Dad grew up living a stone's throw from the Niagara River, which, like most young boys, was a place to learn to swim and help with small chores at the marina. He fell in love with boats and had a few over the years, telling me he was working his way up from smaller boats to a cabin cruiser he had yet to find.  I'll never forget the day he got a call from the harbor master at the marina, telling Dad that a 28-foot Trogen cabin cruiser went up for sale at a very good price. We quickly took the short drive to the marina, where the harbor master showed us to the metal hut where boats were placed on cradles and covered with tarps to protect them from the bad weather.
There she blows, the harbor master said, pointing to a boat covered with blue tarps, which he pulled off, revealing what Dad said was a dream come true. All I saw was a hull and a ton of work to be done before she ever hit the water. On his first visit, the carpenter told my dad it would take about $4,000 to restore it to its original beauty. Plus, the engine would have to be overhauled and all electrical components brought up to current codes. Mind you, my dad wasn't much of a get-your-hands-dirty kind of guy, but he could negotiate with the best of them, eventually getting everything done for 3,500 dollars, which was no small amount in 1963.
The boat took shape in our driveway for a year and a half, and the finished product was one of beauty and grace. Everybody in our family did their part, with Mom making curtains down below in the living area, and my sisters lending a hand. The boat had a cooking stove, a small fridge, a stand-up shower, and a commode. It had a forward berth with a good-sized bed and a table that folded down to form a sleeping area. I'll never forget the smell of new wood and knew why the carpenter was in demand.
We launched the boat on July fourth. Dad and I had already given her a test run, with the mechanic getting out the bugs and giving his stamp of approval. We passed inspection by the Coast Guard, who put a red sticker on the bottom of the windshield dated 1965 through 1966. So with food and drinks stowed away below and sunscreen applied, we headed out of the harbor onto the mighty Niagara River. That was just the first of many voyages we took on that boat as time swam past; Dad couldn't operate the boat anymore due to his failing health. But it didn't stop him from becoming first mate, passing down the captain's hat he wore for many years to me.
Long after my parents left this world, I kept the boat for years, taking my kids on weekend cruises, showing them the places my dad showed us, always with a tear shed. But eventually the upkeep became a burden, and we decided to sell her. I learned that a young couple bought her and treated her with the respect she deserved. As for me, well, I found another boat under a tarp in the marina and called the carpenter straight away.

Mike  2026

Waiting for your next nap.

 It took him a little longer to get to his chair these days, plopping down hard enough that he thought he'd blow out the stuffing. It wasn't always like that he remembered. There were times he could have jumped over the darn thing. These days it's the little things he remembers, like getting his first tattoo and the dozens that followed. Now just a faded ink highway no one would notice.

He smiles as he looks at a picture of himself in his navy uniform, wondering if he really was that age and where the time went. He spends hours looking at old photographs, each a story of his life; he never grows tired of remembering and knowing the day will come when the stories will grow fewer and fade away altogether.
He naps every afternoon, not by choice; mind you, it's just a way of saying he can no longer control sleep as it finds him whenever it pleases. He has one of those new-to-him cell phones his daughter gave to him so she could keep tabs on him. After all, Dad, she would say, you can't be alone all the time without letting me know you're okay. He didn't argue with her, as he knew he couldn't win unless you call turning the damn thing off a win.
As he sat in his chair, he'd put himself into a kind of trance, reliving precious memories of his life, seeing clearly the faces he loved and the laughter of so many, each unique in their own way. Everything was crystal clear, like the time he kicked a can down a country road, hearing crickets and the buzzing of bees hovering over a patch of flowers. Or the time he bought his first car from the junkyard, a 1957 Chevrolet for seventy bucks, and drove it home.
The doorbell rang, and he ignored it, knowing it was just another somebody wanting to mow his grass or shovel his driveway when the snow came. They'd go away, slipping a pamphlet under the door, which he used for kindling in the fireplace. After all, he wasn't glued to his chair and still maintained his house; it just took a while longer to finish, and he hoped he wouldn't fall asleep halfway through.
He used to shrug off people calling him old, but somewhere along the line he accepted the fact that he was. But old doesn't always mean old; it just means slowing down and waiting for a nap.

Mike  2026

too hot to handle

 The heat was worse than she remembered as she sat on the porch fanning her face with a plastic fan she picked up at the market some time ago. It was baby blue with pink flowers and a tiny gold label reading made in China. It helped, she supposed, but sometimes she felt like it was just blowing hot air at her. A glass of iced tea sat beside her, but it hadn't taken much time before the ice cubes just melted, leaving a bit more watered-down tea.

She wasn't expecting any visitors today, so she rolled her stockings down and unbuttoned her blouse just enough to fan her neck as droplets of sweat rolled down her already soaked chest. She wasn't one to complain or question God, but today she found herself looking to the heavens and whispering Why?
There was no air conditioning in the old farmhouse, just open windows and a prayer for any kind of breeze at all. But she'd have to wait for nightfall when the scorching sun gave way to the moon and stars as collective souls gave thanks.
Too hot to cook, so crackers and peanut butter were on the menu tonight, and a cupcake treat with melted frosting for dessert. The darkness was upon her as she sat on the porch again, closing her eyes and letting the warm summer breeze lull her to sleep.
Crickets sang, and tree frogs let their presence be known as the creatures of the night ventured out from daytime hiding places to embrace the cooling night. She woke, remembering her dream of a large bowl of ice cream with two cherries on top, only to realize it was just a dream, and now craving ice cream.
The old fridge gave its all but was no match for the heat, and the bowl of her dream had turned to a melted and lukewarm drink. Waste not, she said out loud as she got a straw and sipped her drink down to the gurgling sounds she made as a kid with her first milkshake.
Tomorrow will bring on the heat again, as it has for several days. Fans made in China will fan faces, kids will play in the sprinklers, and dogs will find a place under the house lying on cool dirt. Will this day be the day the sky opens up and rain comes crashing on the old tin roof? Will the almost dead plants and grass find relief as droplets of god's nectar splash the cracked earth? One can only dream and hope that the old fridge comes alive again with ice cream, no straw needed.
Mike  2026

Unfaded squares

 Unfaded squares on a wall where pictures once hung. A family's memories gone to where I don't know. A dusty shelf on a left-behind dresser holds a pair of bronzed baby shoes, somehow forgotten in a rushed move.

A backyard swing set eaten with rust sits idle with the occasional creaking as a breeze passes by, and you swear you hear the voices of children at play.
A makeshift doghouse, decayed and crumbling, once a shelter for a loyal friend.Remains of a chewed-up stuffed animal, half buried and lost forever.
A dilapidated shed with a rusted metal roof draws you inside as sunlight turns to darkness, the last few rays letting you see the forgotten tools of a trade someone used to earn a living. The walls, once filled with hanging tools, are empty except for a pair of pruning shears and a lantern, probably to give light to projects done at night.
A well-disguised old tractor, covered with vines and tall grass, catches your eye as you climb onto the metal seat and imagine you're a farmer who used the machine like his father did until the day it stopped working and was left where it sat from then on.
A chicken coop without chickens, a barn with no hay, an old tire hung with a rope to make a swing. A dried-up pond, once a place for kids to swim or catch a first fish, now just another unpainted square of a family's memories.
Mike  2026

I could write about whatever

 Even when the page is blank and my fingers hover over the keys, I remind myself there is always something to write about. I could write about the beautiful sunrise this morning or the star-filled night sky. I could write about my next-door neighbor, most likely sleep-deprived, pacing back and forth on the porch as she tries to lull her baby to sleep, as she keeps singing to her child in a soft mother's voice.

I could write about my grandson's visit the other day, dumbfounded by how tall he has grown and his plan for his future. We would look through pictures from when he was just a wee bit of a thing, as I looked at his expressions of remembrance and happiness.
I could write about the loss of a good friend recently, but my tears are dried now, I think. I did write something the day I learned of her death, but that's tucked away in a special collection I've written over time and don't share.
I could write about all the love I've had and all I've given, subtle reminders of my life and its blessings. I could write about all the places I've traveled and endless roads I've thundered down, the sound of my Harley music to my ears. Sunday rides going from one bar to another, always a brotherhood of bikers there to greet me with a cold one.
I could write about my youth, my adulthood, and now old age, each part of me as was the plan from the beginning. I can indeed write about anything, with plenty of topics all boiled into a pot of words waiting for me to tap a key.
Mike  2026