The red wagon

 He was a lanky man, quick to smile at everyone he met. In his prime during the 1930s, he dreamed big, always chasing get-rich-quick schemes. Often, it was the bottle talking as he sat at the table, his mother glowing as he described his next big score.

He tried several jobs, but most were terminated for sleeping in the night before and arriving late to work. He tried selling insurance and new and used cars, but all ended up taking a back seat to his priority: the drink.

He came from a circus family and quickly grew to love it, a chip off the old block, as his dad was a circus band leader and his mom walked the tightrope. They traveled from town to town, setting up in vacant fields, where he was tasked with setting up and taking down the big tent. Nobody knew exactly how many days of work he missed, but he was often found sleeping it off under a circus wagon, which led to him being fired, again.

He wandered aimlessly across the states, always with a smile and a promise to do a good job, but the booze ruled his life, and before he died of a bad liver, he went back home to live with his mother and memories of his dad. It was then that he came across a 1930s food truck abandoned in a field. Immediately, he knew what he wanted to do. All he needed was someone to believe in his dream as he did, and his mom agreed to lend him the money if he promised her he would stop drinking.

He was a guy who worked with his hands and his vision, fixing what he could and figuring out the rest through trial and error. He painted the truck bright red and painted the name on both sides. When it came time to outfit the inside, his skills shone as much as the stainless sinks and countertops he designed himself. He went to auctions and bought a cotton candy machine, a peanut roaster, and a hot-dog-and-burger grill. He found a soda fountain at the curb and took it home, where he fixed it like new. He searched for the elusive candy apple machine without any luck until he visited the county fair and played poker with the workers. When everybody cashed out, it was just him and the candy apple vendor.

He probably cheated, but he didn't much care, as he talked the vendor into putting up the candy apple machine, which the vendor reluctantly did, and then lost. With that secure in the truck, he was ready to hit the road and live his dream. He traveled with carnivals and fairs, doing great business, and for the first time in a long time, he was sober and making money. But like many things in life, he fell off the wagon and often found himself alone in his truck after the fairs closed down and left him behind.

Years later, the little red wagon, faded red with vines growing in the wooden-spoked wheels, came to rest next to his mother's house, where it remained until a passerby noticed it and its potential. He sold it to that passerby for pennies on the dollar, enough to keep him in whiskey for a few months, when he developed liver cancer and passed away at 44 years old.

To this day, you'll still see the little red wagon at county fairs and carnivals across the land, the smell of hot dogs and burgers cooking, and the smiles on children's faces as they bite into a candy apple.I like to think he's looking down at his vision, proud of what he did and sorry for what he didn't.

Mike 2026                                                          

The view from my world

 Looking out the window on a damp, gloomy day, I see my little space on the earth below me. Rainwater flows down the sides of the street. A little boy's toy boat lay capsized without a captain, and the chalk of the hopscotch game washed away.

Meanwhile, outside, a few children in bright yellow raincoats and rubber boots jump in puddles and sail paper boats downstream, which are quickly sucked into a drain.

A pet lover braves the rain to walk their dog, begging it to hurry along as cats take shelter under the porch.

I retreat from my window and pick up the book I started during the last storm, dressed in the robe gifted to me by my daughter, who claims I shouldn't live alone anymore.

I'm far from being alone, more like a spectator watching from a second floor as the circus below me must go on. There are animals and clowns in yellow raincoats, show dogs and feats of bravery everywhere I look, as props float away only to be retrieved when the gloom turns to light.

What a difference a day makes as I wake to sunny skies and fluffy clouds. The once-moving water has dried up, leaving behind a rubber boot and a box of waterlogged chalk turned to liquid colors. I'll venture outside and sit on the porch to listen to the sounds I couldn't hear from my window. Kids' laughter, dogs barking, and finally the sound of the ice cream man, and a quarter burning a hole in the pocket of my robe.

Mike 2026                                                    

Emergence of spring

 Another almost-invisible speck of green poked through the remaining snow. She knelt beside it, wanting to touch it, but refrained as its delicate stalk danced in the gentle breeze. There were signs of spring everywhere she looked, in the trees, where once bare limbs shivered in the cold, now slowly warm themselves with hundreds of baby leaf blankets.

Her walk finds her at the river's edge, where the ice has melted for the most part, allowing the streams to flow with purpose as she cupped her hands and drank the ice-cold water. In the distance, a newborn bird screams its song for its mother, who's never too far away, gathering food to fill their empty stomachs.

She had walked a good distance from her home and knew it wouldn't be long before her mom called out to her to come inside for a warm bowl of soup. She had another look at the magic of spring that surrounded her house, wondering how many more tiny miracles would appear overnight as she slept.

The morning brought the color green everywhere she looked, as if the warmth had arrived overnight and taken the snow away for another year. Splashes of color from the tulip bulbs planted in the autumn burst into an artist's palette of reds, yellows, and white, rising from hidden places known only to her.

It was her special place, with sights she had longed for amid the endless cold of winter's fury. Her love for the outside, where animals ran free, and time was measured by hunger pains. Her vision of living in the forest was etched in her mind: chasing fireflies in mason jars and never forgetting her role as a caretaker of nature. It was her calling, and the forests listened to her every word.

Mike 2026                                                            

Witch of the woods

 I remember as a kid, the dusty dirt road beneath my feet as I kicked a can, sunlight shimmering through the thick afternoon air. I was on my way home from school the final day before summer vacation, my mind ablaze with dreams of endless, golden afternoons and the sweet freedom of long, hot summer days. Hopefully, none of my buddies would have to attend summer school, and we could all explore the woods and the river, where a cool dip was always welcome. The four of us parted ways at the four corners, each headed home except for me. I went inside the old country store my granddad built some fifty years ago, the squeaky screen door announcing my arrival. Granddad was getting along in years, and we all knew that when he passed on, the old store would be gone. It hadn't turned out a profit in a long time, but the family didn't have the heart to tell him as he perched on his stool reading a newspaper; he'd already read several times. Hey, boy, he would say here to help, are you? Yes, sir, I'd answer, grabbing a broom and sweeping the floor, and stocking the almost empty shelves with the same cans that have sat on those shelves long after the date of expiration. When I was done, he put a dime on the counter, never looking up from his newspaper, as I left with the squeaky door announcing my departure.

Summer meant hot days and warm nights, both of which we'd take advantage of camping out in the woods and swimming in the cool water of the river. We'd follow the train tracks and explore just far enough to make sure we got back to camp before the darkness set in and the woods became a scary place. We'd take turns telling ghost stories and legends as we sat around the campfire, roasting hot dogs on sticks. One such folklore was the story of the old witch who lived deep in the woods, who boiled kids in a huge black iron pot if she caught them snooping around her cottage. Last summer, we made a blood promise to sneak up to her windows and look inside, scared to death of what we'd find. Like most times when an important task had to be done, we would draw straws or sticks to see who got the glory this time around. I'll admit I felt a little sick when I drew the shorts. But a Pac was a Pac, and early the following morning, we began the search for the old cottage in the woods.

As we ventured deeper into the woods, the smell of something sweet filled the air. The smell we surmised was kids being cooked alive in a sticky mess. My heart was in my throat, my hands shaking as I left behind my buddies hiding next to a fallen tree, as I got on my belly and crept ever closer to the sickening sweet smell. Then I saw it, an old cottage covered with vines that almost blended into the woods itself, alone and untouched for who knew how long. Smoke rose from the chimney, and horrible thoughts were too much to bear. My buddies egged me on, so I continued closer until I reached the rickety steps of the porch, and as quietly as possible, I looked into a window, and there she was. Dressed all in black, her long white hair tied up with black ribbons. I gasped just loud enough to see her look intently out of the window as my face twitched with fear, and I took off running as fast as I could, racing past my buddies and screaming as loud as I could to run and not look back. I wasn't proud of myself, especially since I soiled my pants.

That evening, around the table, my mom sensed something was wrong with me and asked me questions about my day... I assured her everything was fine. Once dinner was over, my dad set out four pieces of golden foil on the table, each with a wrapper that read "Aunt Tilly's Chocolate." One for each of you, he smiled, unwrapping it and claiming it was the best chocolate he'd ever had. Where did you get this, my mom asked. Believe it or not, at grandad's store. I stopped in to check on him just as a woman in black, carrying a basket adorned with flowers, left the store. On the counter were twelve foil-wrapped pieces of candy, well, actually eleven, as granddad was making fast work of the other amazing piece of chocolate. Dad went on to say that her name is Aunt Tilly and that she'd been making chocolate for decades, alone in her cottage, doing what she loved best: bringing smiles to children and adults alike. Granddad said she was his first vendor when he opened his store, arriving with the squeaky screen door and leaving it creaking after she left. We kids, learned a lesson or two, but it took growing a little more to believe what we were told. We continued to recon the cottage and eventually got up the nerve to knock on her door, where she'd be waiting with four extra-large chocolate bars that we enjoyed on the walk back home. Time passed, and Aunt Tilly passed away doing what she loved best. As for me, I bought the rights to her recipes and mass-produced her chocolate bars, eventually becoming the king of chocolate.

Mike 2026                                          

Moments in time

 I remember, as a child, taking slow walks with my grandma to the end of the driveway, which seemed endless when I was just learning to walk. I clung to her thumb as she steadied my unsteady steps, her gentle voice guiding me toward the world ahead.

I remember being a child, and my own superhero, spending countless hours as the Lone Ranger, Superman, a crusty pirate, and the lion in The Wizard of Oz. My backyard, the stage; my imagination, the script.

There was no money for fancy costumes, but improvisation came in the form of old bed sheets, a broomstick, and a small trash lid that, when tied around my waist, served nicely for my body armor. Granddad showed me how to make a pirate hat using a paper bag that he folded in creases, then another one until it fit me perfectly.

I remember the Fourth of July challenge of climbing the big tree in our yard, which was a rite of passage for the older cousins. Their reward was watching the fireworks displays across the town and beyond from their perch high in the tree. I dreamed about the time it would be me inching up through the branches, each step a challenge mixed with an abnormal amount of fear.

I remember walking in the fields of corn, hearing my dad say, " Knee high by the fourth of July, and all is looking good. But it was his knee-high, not mine, as I struggled to keep up with him. Looking as far as the eye could see at the endless rows of corn, I was beginning to feel trapped, so he hoisted me upon his shoulders and slowly continued our quest.

I remember endless summer days playing baseball with the neighborhood kids on the town field that doubled for an ice rink in winter. We used worn-out berlap sacks stitched together and filled with sand as bases, and the biggest thrill of all was getting to wear a uniform. The woman held baked good sales and other crafts to raise the money for the uniforms, which made you feel like the real deal when you stepped off the bus at your first away game.

I remember going to mass at the most amazing church right in the middle of town. Walking through the heavy wooden doors that creaked whenever opened or closed and made a distinct thudd when fully closed. I was baptized there, received my first communion, and attended funerals too many to remember. It was the only time I saw my dad cry.

I remember the kindness of strangers who helped when help was needed. I remember the switchboard operator who knew your name and the fireman who blew the horn as they passed you by. I remember getting caught stealing a piece of bubble gum while shopping with my mom, who made me give it to the biggest policeman I'd ever seen.

I remember making popsicles in ice cube trays and Kool-Aid, and catching earthworms at night when the grass was damp. I go back in time, remembering everything that ever meant something to me, and I hold on tight to all of them as I walk down the driveway in my dreams, letting go of Grandma's thumb at the end and moving toward a life filled with cherished moments.

Mike 2026                                        

Last line untied

 When the wind stirs my hair, and the sea's scent soothes me, I'll know it's time to close my eyes.

And when the last rope has been untied, and the bow points west, I too will set with the sun.

Then, when the darkness falls, and the sea is illuminated by the green of Neptune's breath and the feel of a mermaid's kiss on my face, I'll know I've come home.

If a gust rocks my boat or a squall tips me into the sea, I won't flounder but surrender to its power as I slowly am guided to depths only ever known by those who went before me.

I hope it's a sailing ship that spots my boat adrift in a now calm sea as they search for me with no success. They line the deck and salute a brother of the sea who's gone home to a place all sailors wish to be when the last line is untied, and the bow points West.

Mike 2026                                                 

Love letters from the sea

 As the sun rises and the ship moves forward, I feel the ache of missing you on a cold winter day. I picture you wrapped in a blanket, gazing out the window, longing for the warmth of our shared daydreams.

I man the rail as salt spray wakes me. A pod of dolphins plays nearby. I close my eyes and see you brush your hair, wearing one of my sweaters, and pausing to breathe in my scent.

Life at sea is a lonely place where the sirens of the mermaids call out, beckoning you to Neptune's kingdom, a place where the giant turtles and spotted whales protect this underwater castle and its king.

You're suddenly awakened by the ship's bell announcing breakfast in the galley, and, briefly, you think of her having her breakfast of tea and biscuits at a table meant for two; a stack of letters remains sealed on my side of that table.

I'll be gone for 18 months, and I promised I'd write every day, and I did. Over 500 letters I penned and mailed, arriving at their destination, I called home and you. I close my eyes again, watching as you open one letter, reading it over and over, written with salty tears, and read with the same as her teardrops fell upon my own.

Life on a ship with secret destinations and delayed mail services sometimes backed up for weeks, even months, but eventually made it home to her, fifty or more on any given day. She marked each letter with a number from 1 to 500, using the postmarks to make sure she read them in order, then neatly piled them on the table for two, where she would open number 1 and read it over and over again, then place it in a box to be shared when you steamed back home on a cold winter's day.

I returned to port and was granted a two-week leave before heading back out to sea. I spotted her in the crowd and dropped my seabag on the deck, running to meet her halfway as our bodies collided in a warm embrace, our tears flowing like those of one more mermaid splashing me goodbye until the next time I ventured out to sea.

We never finished reading the rest of the letters that spoke of my love for her, the memories we've shared, and the deepest emotions we shared with the flesh. Now I leave again on a springtime day when flowers bloom, and robins sing. When one last time waking up next to each other, a stack of love letters from the sea on both sides of the table meant for two.

Mike 2026