The old trailer he lived in for 15 years has shown signs of wear and neglect. Once there were trimmed bushes and flower gardens he took great pride in, as did his neighbors, who always gave him a thumbs-up or a shout-out from a passing car; things were looking good. As time wore on, his health grew worse, and he watched as his pride and joy became an eyesore he could hardly bear to see. On good days he'd do his best to trim a bush or weed a garden, but as life sometimes does, he grew weary and went back inside. His trailer resembled a thrift store, with mementos from places he went, pictures of family, and a large assortment of knickknacks only he liked. Snow globes, miniature plastic soldiers, a chessboard set up and waiting for his next challenger. But it's been gathering dust for an unknown time. He had a wall shelf filled with books, most of which he had read, sometimes twice. He loved the classics like moby dick, Tom Sawyer, and collections of westerns. But his favorite pastime was writing. Putting words together came easily to him, so much so that it wasn't uncommon for him to write well into the night when he'd turn out the lights and write by candlelight—the softly glowing light, like dancers in a valley, with the winds their music.
He realized he was old now and memories were his companions, called upon to take him back to the days of his youth when just a few lines were visible, mostly laugh lines he said, but now a well-worn roadmap of a life well lived. He was alone, the kids grown, choosing to live many miles away, for his liking, but who was he to tell them how to live their lives? They never forgot his birthday, usually with a phone call rather than a card, and he liked that, as he got to say hello to the grandkids who barely knew him except for the stories their parents told. Holidays came and went with another call or a box of goodies at Christmas. He ate his meals in front of the television, watching a world he didn't understand, sometimes clicking it off to finish his meal in silence.
He kept up with his medications and tried to exercise but usually quit before he should have, as a freezer pop kept calling to him. He knew for certain he wasn't alone in his trailer, as many signs led him to believe the spirits of those who called this place their home before death made themselves known by turning lights on and off, blowing the curtains on a dead-still night, and moving things around where they didn't belong. After a long time, everything quit, and he surmised they had left to haunt someone else.
He sometimes missed his younger days when everything was new, and adventure was his middle name. He longed for trimmed bushes and gardens of wildflowers, the smell of a rose and a home-cooked meal. But he had his mind that could still call out to him, begging to write a story, a memory come alive, and he smiled a toothless grin and began to write.
Mike 2026
