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                                  

The little things

 It's the little things that bring the greatest joy in life: the sound of a baby's sigh as their eyes meet yours for the first time, or the sight of your child climbing a tree. Each step upward brings him closer, in his mind, to reaching the stars.

The smallest things offer pause, quiet moments, and a stillness that lasts a lifetime. Listen to raindrops on a tin roof, watch water spatter as children leap into puddles, their laughter endless and full of joy.

Watching the flicker of a candle's shadow and the joy of creating hand figures dancing on the wall. It's your dog, his head on your chest, syncing heartbeats as one.

It's staring out a window, watching the street below come alive with a game of stick ball, hopscotch, and marbles. It's the dropping of the sticks and marbles gathered up and put into pockets of worn jeans as the sound of the ice cream truck turns down your street, and that obnoxious song you've played in your mind long after the truck was gone.

Joy is captured in pictures hanging on the walls of homes where time is measured by years gone by, and love remains in every smiling face that looks back at you.

Joy is happiness stored within you and remains there until summoned to be felt and remembered again. Such a small word to carry so much meaning for so many pictures in your heart.

Mike 2026                                     

Rewind time

 In a world devoid of respect, I want to rewind time. I'll keep growing a salt-and-pepper beard and let my hair grow until I'm unrecognizable.

Whether on a boat sailing the oceans or in a cabin in the forest among creatures, I seek freedom and connection with nature. I pursue new tattoos as expressions of my journey and keep the memory of my Harley alive.

I'll give my eyes and ears a break from world news, which seems harder and harder to believe. Aren't they capable of showing you what they want you to believe with AI? Of course they are.

I'll close all social accounts and sites, leaving behind a very small footprint. Only a very limited number of people will have to find me. Some will call me unhinged, and I suppose there's truth in that. Being 72 years old has allowed me to feel and remember countless changes in this world. Watching as a simple life with faith in God and Country has become something forgotten in a history lesson, and the previous chapter has no dust.

I will meditate and pray for inner peace, something that tiptoed away from me but wants to return. I will sit by a river and watch the tall weeds sway to the music of the winds, and walk on a white-sand beach as the sun sets, with crashing waves as the only sound.

A cleanse of both mind and body, a float in a salt bath in the ocean, splashing me around where she pleases until I'm coated with salt like a fish waiting to be fried. Rinsed by the rain and dried by the sun, both body and mind free of yesterday's trials.

I choose neither left nor right, nor weak nor strong, just peace and quiet, walking or skipping somewhere, my written words are all I hear within the sounds of nature's heartbeat.

I will rewind in time if only in my dreams.

Mike 2026