One last look behind you

 He saw her at the bus stop, her gloved hands holding her coat tight against the early evening cold. He recognized her from a distance, wondering if he was mistaken until he got closer and saw her eyes. Time had taken its toll on both of them, and he wondered what her life had become. Did she have a family, as she told him she wanted years ago? Did she have the house with a white picket fence and a rose garden, a dog and a cat and a home filled with grandkids? Did she have a husband who worshiped the ground she walked on?

He was close enough now, mingling in the crowd waiting for the bus, to see her beauty had only grown more through the years. Her long silver hair flowed in the breeze, and the lines of age were a roadmap of her life that he wondered and hoped was a life well lived with the love and happiness she deserved. They were just a few feet apart when he saw her looking his way. Did she notice him? Did she doubt herself, wondering if, after all these years apart, it was actually him? He felt a pit in his stomach as he tried to speak, but the crowd suddenly rushed onto the bus, and she was out of his sight for a brief moment until she found an empty seat, and he practically jumped over people to claim the seat beside her.
For what felt like an eternity, they stayed quiet until she softly asked, "Is that really you, Sam?" It certainly felt like a lifetime, didn't it? They took turns talking about their lives and their past when they thought they'd have a life together, but it wasn't meant to be, as he was a young man focused on his career with no time for her dreams. He whispered he was sorry, but she cut him off, saying she'd had a full life, a happy life that she wouldn't trade for anything.
Thirty minutes on a city bus, a lifetime of shared stories, and the sadness of knowing they were given this moment that would never be given to them again. As her stop drew closer, he told her he thought of her often and always wondered if, had he asked for her hand in marriage, she would have said yes, would she have given up her dreams to follow him wherever he went. She touched his face and shook her head, saying goodbye, as he watched her walk away, turning just once to see his face one last time.

   Mike 2026                                                                      

Mike  2026

Old school biker

 His old Harley sat covered in the garage, now a reminder of his younger days riding on mountain roads and country miles he wanted to last forever. It wasn't about fancy paint jobs or a thousand pieces of chrome; he remembered the bike itself. An old Panhead with a kick-start and a seemingly never-ending machine with oil leaks. If you owned a bike like his, you never went anywhere, even to the corner store, without a burlap sack of tools. He wasn't a fair-weather biker; his rubber met the roads in every condition. During the harsh winters, he'd rebuild his bike from the ground up, a painstaking task but one he loved as much as he did riding. He will never forget the first ride of spring, stopping along the road to tighten something he'd forgotten, saying to himself, crap happens, with a smile.

It wasn't just the ride but riding with other bikers, some known, others met, having a beer in one of many biker bars along the way. Most conversations focused on their bikes in detail only a true biker would know. In the summer months, he carried a sleeping bag tied to the back and had no fixed place to go, as long as there were forests and rivers where he could sleep under the stars. He'd often go back to camps he'd visited before, where bikers gathered in peace to share stories of the open roads and party until the sun came up, then fired up their bikes to continue their journey to no place special.
Back in the day, a lot of people hitchhiked, and it was common to offer a girl a ride on the back to where she was going even if it was out of your way. He had many memories of long-haired beauties who smelled like patchouli and sun-drenched skin. Now all he has are memories, as age has stopped him from riding after he finally listened to his kids and grandkids that his reflexes weren't what they once were. Now, every so often, he uncovers his steel pony and swings a leg over to sit, but dares not start it, as the kick would probably break his leg. It's enough to sit on it, reliving the country roads and mountain curves that challenged the best riders.
When he passed, he wished to be buried beside his bike, where the heavens would greet him with the sounds of other bikers kick-starting their steeds and traveling endless roads in good weather, where the rubber meets the road, and real bikers ride forever. 

                                                                                          Mike  2026

Mike 2026

Pumpkin creations

 He planted acres of pumpkins on the farm, watching them grow in every shape and size. Every October, cars filled with smiling faces as kids rushed in to select the perfect pumpkin that would glow brightly through crooked mouths and triangle eyes as they sat on the porch, the scent one more memory that began in the ground and ended up on someone's porch next to a bowl of candy.

Some families went all out, letting dad carve out an award-winning face or use stencils for the perfect pumpkin. At my house, my siblings and I would use a crayon to outline their faces, and with a lot of supervision we'd use a kitchen knife to cut what we had drawn, mistakes and all. I can still feel the goop I took out of the insides, saving the seeds so Mom could soak them in salt water, then bake them to a golden brown. I think they were gone before we even collected all the candy.
The day after Halloween, the pumpkins that glowed so brightly now sat on the porch, a shadow of their former selves, with eyes and mouths, one big gaping hole becoming one with melted candles. Into the trash they went with little remorse and a thought of next year's pumpkin creations.

Mike 2026                                                      

The final showing

 Ready, Pops? he heard his son ask. If we hurry, we can get in line first. It was the last day the old movie theater would be open after seventy-five years of entertaining the people of this once small town. He was eight years old when the doors opened, and a silent movie played on the huge screen. He remembered newsreels playing during the war, asking boys to enlist and folks to buy war bonds to support the cause.

He relived the first time he asked his high school sweetheart, Mary Jo, to a Saturday matinee showing Gone with the Wind, holding her hand and sharing a box of popcorn. At seventeen, they sat in the balcony stealing kisses, and at eighteen, she promised to write to him every day until he returned.
Bring back memories, Pop, his son asked. He didn't need to answer as he wiped away a tear, remembering she didn't wait and how his heart was broken. On this final day, they showed bits and pieces of the past seventy-five years, those that made you laugh with The Three Stooges and The Wizard of Oz that you could watch a hundred times. They played cartoons like Felix the Cat and Superman, King Kong, and Tarzan. All of which were played out in backyards, bringing the movies to life with you as the hero and your friends as villains.
As the last film ended and the lights went on, old folks didn't get up too fast, not because of their age but to soak in for the last time the place that molded their lives. All set, Pops, his son asked. Just a second, son, he answered, reaching into the box of milk duds and throwing one from the balcony, hitting someone on the head who said in a loud voice, I've been waiting for someone to do that for a long time. Thanks for the memory. He took his son's arm to guide him down the steps of the balcony, slowly looking one last time at the movie posters on the walls in the lobby and the smell of popcorn popping, the one constant memory of going to the movies.

                                                                                Mike 2026

                        

Mike 2026

Summers as a carney

 He went back to a now-deserted carnival where, long ago, he spent his teenage years working and thinking he was the luckiest kid alive. He remembered the day before opening for the summer months; he'd be tasked with greasing the rides and making sure every ride was safe, as there were times when a bolt or nut would vibrate loose, which could spell disaster if not tended to quickly.

The carnies became like family to him, sharing meals in the dining tent together, telling him stories of their travels that took them North in the summer months and south for the winters. The carnival owner was a large man; everyone called him Boss, with a big heart and a profound love for the carney lifestyle. He took him under his wing, and in the few years he worked for him, he taught him all he needed to know.
Looking at the remnants of the once-lively carnival, he remembered the pull-behind trailers that were home to the performers and midway workers, now just shells filled with memories and the voices of those carnies long since passed. The once bustling midway where he learned the ways of the games, some, if not all, rigged to lose. The sights of the rifles were off just enough to cause a missed shot; the milk bottles had a magnet attached to the bottom, guaranteeing they couldn't fall with the others. Most folks just passed it off as bad luck and swore they'd win next time. He remembered a time when one teenage boy, trying to win a huge purple stuffed panda bear for his girlfriend, spent his whole allowance throwing rings at soda bottles he had to get over the neck completely. Ring after ring, he was off by less than a micro-inch, not knowing the bottles weren't exactly level but couldn't tell with the naked eye.
Not all games were rigged; some made a point of letting folks win a cheap toy or a couple of free tickets to the ice cream wagon. The sounds of victory filled the midway, enticing others to take a chance. His last season came to a close four years after his first day. He left for college up state. He wrote letters to his friends, and they wrote back, telling him where they were and where they'd be heading as they followed the weather. After a while, the letters stopped coming and going, and his years as a carney became a chest full of memories.
Decades later, he came across an article about abandoned carnivals and theme parks, and one picture stopped him in his tracks as he looked at the carnival he once called his second home. He jumped on a plane and flew to Kansas, and with the help of a taxi driver who knew every square inch of the county, he drove him to a deserted field littered with the remains of a once-thriving carnival. He couldn't stop the tears as the midway lights and the faded paint on the thrill rides stood as reminders of their days of glory and the joy they brought to kids of all ages. He continued his walk, bending down to retrieve what was left of a purple stuffed panda bear tortured by time and the elements, now just a few threads of purple material and one eye hanging by a string.
He was about to leave when he saw what had once been his trailer, now a rusted-out shell, all but invisible, buried in weeds and forgotten. He got on his knees and looked inside, bringing back so many memories of days long past but never forgotten. He spotted an old piece of paper yellowed with time and saw it was a flyer for the carnival, the very kind he pasted all over town on phone poles and storefronts. Finding it was his holy grail, and he took it home and framed it where it now joins other memorabilia: a milk bottle that couldn't fall, a rifle with a bad sight, and a complete set of colored rings and a soda bottle.
He may have been a seasonal carny, but those were the happiest times of his life, and they will stay with him until the lights and sounds of the carnival fade away and the carousel music stops.

                                                                         

Mike  2026

Life on the rails

 He had walked the railroad tracks for most of his adult life. A lone traveler, a hobo, a soul on life's journey of whistle stops and days on end in a boxcar, his worn boots hanging over the edge, dancing with no floor. He followed the seasons, staying cool in the mountains of the northern Pacific and warm on southern stretches of track.

He was a simple man who preferred his own company and never paid much attention to glaring eyes and whispers. His clothes were well worn, and he replaced them with throwaways found in dumpsters and donation boxes when needed. The tracks were his road map that he knew like a good friend, cold steel taking him places most will never see.
Homeless camps yards from the tracks, where some like him stayed out of sight until an open car filled with supplies was ambushed, as men risked life and limb throwing boxes of unknown contents out of the car to be picked up by hungry mouths. It was like Christmas morning as boxes were opened and they found things they could use, while others were left in the bushes because they had no value to them.
Life on the rails, where stories were written and told around campfires and hidden riverbanks, brought smiles and often a deep recognition of a chosen life and the sadness it brought. Broken veterans and Wall Street business people who took the gamble and lost everything, leaving them empty, with no future, unable to face the life they walked away from.
The sounds of passing trains and whistles, the smell of diesel fuel, a dragging wheel throwing off sparks, and the smell of an empty boxcar were all moments he grew to love on his endless journey as the caboose rounded a bend and rolled out of sight

Mike  2026

                                                                                

Mike  2026

Life defined

 Life is give and take, ask and answer. Life is good and evil, and trying to understand why bad things happen to good people. Life is happiness and sorrows rolled into one lifetime as we do our best, and best isn't always good enough. Life is a series of tests; some we pass and others we fail, but we keep trying because what else can we do?

Life is our opportunity to share our knowledge and experiences, hoping it will be accepted, respected, and remembered. Life is meant to be an abundance of happiness with occasional letdowns and times when you need to be with others and other times alone.
Life is respecting elders as you thirst for their knowledge and how they even survived the worst of times. You listen as they speak, sometimes with tears rolling down their face as some memories remain too painful to bring back up.
Life is what we make it to be, how we live it and why we did the things we did, all rolled up in a package well used and sometimes abused in the name of fun. Life is a gift we can either like or dislike; that's all up to you, but one thing is certain: we have only one chance to get it right.

Mike  2026