The smells of each season

 The smells of any given season are etched in my mind as I walk down a country road. In winter, the air is crisp and pure with a scent that's frozen in the ground until Spring arrives. Springtime creates a botanical garden of countless plant species and grass. Tulip bulbs planted in the fall crash through the ground and come to life in splashes of colors as wildflowers fill an entire valley with a fragrance to rival any high-priced perfume. Springtime rains that smell fresh make you want to stand in them as tiny drops shower your gardens, helping everything in the ground grow.

Summer brings with it the smells of everything outside. The charcoal grill and fresh-cut grass houses are being painted, and the swimming pools that smelled of chlorine. Summer means the smell of tanning lotions in many scents and the intoxicating smells of fair food. Summer means trail rides through the woods, smelling the ancient pine trees and layers of moss that carry the scent of something old.
Autumn smells like colored leaves, if that's even possible. The hay bales now stacked away in a barn leave behind empty fields plowed under with the dead corn husks that will enrich the ground for the next planting. Piles of raked leaves will be burned, the smell traveling from one house to another until only black spots on the ground are all that's left. Autumn smells like a pumpkin stand, an apple orchard, and sticking your head out the car window to let the smells fill your nose.
Winter, Spring, Summer, and Fall each have their own scents that we can enjoy throughout the year if we take the time to breathe deeply, slow down, and savor every little thing that's ours to smell.
Mike  2026                                                              

Uncertainty of time

 He sat at his kitchen table, the one he found curbside. He didn't understand why someone would throw it away, as the legs were sturdy and the surface only needed some sandpaper and elbow grease. He worked on it until he was satisfied, then replaced the old table with another curb find he had come upon years ago.

He ate a bowl of oatmeal with the maple or brown sugar flavor, which was his favorite. The box said to add hot water and stir until a creamy texture appeared, but he liked the little clumps, so he didn't stir it too much. And it wasn't uncommon for him to find some of those clumps later in his beard, pick them out, and eat them.

He didn't do much these days, probably because he'd done about everything a person could do in seventy-some years. A circle of life, he said, the joys of childhood and the years leading up to adulthood, filled with memories in the making. Successes and failures too numerous to say and falling in love more times than he cared to remember. Now, as he enjoys his life with few distractions, all that remains is the uncertainty of time.

He once told someone that old age allowed you certain privileges, like sitting around all day in your pajamas, not showering for days until you smelled yourself, and putting on more deodorant just because you had to run some errands. It meant eating in front of the television and yelling at the news caster that he didn't know what he was talking about. One time, so upset he'd knock over his drink that splashed the cat, who went screaming away.

He knew the trash pick-up days and planned accordingly, which days he'd back up his old truck out of the garage and head to an area he knew all too well, as it was where he once lived a long time ago. He would keep a sharp lookout for hidden treasures buried in piles of unwanted items being thrown out just because something had quit working. He never had to buy small appliances; he'd just fix the ones he found, making them as good as new.

His was a simple life, one he chose with little regret, even though he sometimes found himself drowning in memories he couldn't erase. Joys that turned to sorrow, love that turned to hate, and time that wouldn't slow down. Today, he sits at the old table he found on the curb and, with a pocketknife, carves his initials into the sanded surface, a reminder of who he was for the guy who picks it out of his trash.

Mike 2026                                                       

                                                     

RUN!

 When I close my eyes, I see you alone in a small wooden room painted white with only a straight-back chair for you to sit. Your long hair lies perfectly still across your shoulders, and your eyes half open or closed, looking out the only window at the freedom you know awaits you.

I speak softly, just loud enough that I know you can hear me, and inch closer to you so I can smell your scent of wildflowers that you must have bathed in before I arrived.

They had you dressed in white, which made it seem you blended with the room itself, a peasant dress, I believe it's called. No slits or short lengths, just white clinging to your body like a windblown sheet that's as still as the room itself.

I whisper your name, but you remain with eyes half open or closed, looking straight at that window as if planning your escape. I thought for a brief moment I saw your lips part just a bit as if wanting to speak, but no words were spoken, just as it's been for six months. I take your hand in mine, feeling your softness as no fingers move, no words spoken, and no idea if you'll ever come back to me.

A nurse comes in asking if I'd like the window open for some fresh air, and I saw her turn ever so slowly, only visible to me. Her lips parted, and she whispered RUN!

Mike  2026                                               

A writers mind

 The flame from a candle danced across the room as he tried to find the words that were eluding him for the moment. He watched the flame, which he could change with a soft blow in its direction. It became a sort of game he played watching the flame dance to the right and then to the left, bending too far with the fear it would snuff itself out. Childish, he thought to himself as he picked up his pen and searched some more for his next sentence that refused to show itself.

Then his eye landed on the glow of the fireplace. A beautiful orange in color, glowing one minute and dimming another. The crackling of the burning wood keeps time like a base drum as the falling embers crash down to the floor in one big final. It amused him for a moment or two, but the words still wouldn't show themselves.

He glanced at the window, the pane frozen with a hundred ice crystals that, one by one, began to melt in the heat of the fireplace. Sliding across the glass as if it were their own skating rink. In his mind, he heard their voices like those of the munchkins on The Wizard of OZ, causing him to laugh out loud at his own foolishness. But the words wouldn't come.

He grew tired and blew out the candles, stoked the fire, and went to bed. Lying in the darkness, he suddenly sat upright and reached for his pen. The words began to flow like a mighty river with no end in sight. Guess all he needed were some dancing candles, a musical fire, and a bunch of munchkins skating on a frozen windowpane that somehow made sense.

Mike 2026                                                    

The wanderer

 His eyes were hollow from so many years on this earth. His skin was weathered and thin, which happens when you go without food, but he always has enough coins to buy a fifth of cheap booze. He was a wanderer, they say, with holes in the bottom of his shoes and tattered clothing. He rarely took off except for those times he landed in jail, charged with something stupid like drinking in a public park. The guards had a good laugh at his expense, taking bets on who would be the lucky one to take his clothes to be burned. They found some clothes in the donation box that mostly fit him, except for the boots, which were a bit too large. He'd been there before and had asked for some newspaper, which he stuffed into the toe area, and all was well. They gave him a sandwich from the vending machine, a stale egg salad sandwich that he gratefully accepted. If only he had a snort to calm his nerves, but that wasn't happening.

The following day, he went before the judge. He stood staring ahead as the judge read the charges against him and asked how he pleaded. I don't know," he answered softly. You don't know, the judge asked in a tone that was anything but nice. Well, your honor, I drink a lot, don't know why, really. I suppose because it helps me forget the things that have haunted me for some time now. And that would be what the judge asked.

I went off to war a long time ago. He began. I wasn't prepared for the things I saw and had to do. Each round that exploded around me took a little piece of me, and the fear welled up inside of me, and I ran off the battlefield and never stopped until the military police found me hiding in a burned-out truck. They threw me out of the army, giving me a ticket home and seven dollars, which I used to buy a fifth. The judge was silent for a moment, then softly spoke, saying he found it wrong the way they treated me. I was just a kid fighting a man's war with no compassion at all. He found me not guilty and released me back into the world I seemed to have found peace in. The guards confronted him at the door, handed him a bag filled with clothes and a pair of boots that fit him, and an envelope with one hundred dollars in twenties that they knew he would drink up in no time.

He's still out there somewhere chasing something he will never catch, as the memories will always be with him and the longing for an egg salad sandwich forever on his mind.

Mike  2026                                                  

The wooden monster

 The once mighty rollercoaster, a wooden wonder of engineering back when, now sits abandoned among the other rides that brought so much joy and laughter to all who dared. He walked around in the silence, with only the occasional squeak of a kiddy ride moving slowly in the breeze. He came here often growing up. First, with his family as he waited with great expectation for the day he would reach the proper height on the big measurement sign and be able to ride. On his twelfth birthday, as he grew several inches, he was ready. His dad reluctantly agreed to ride with him, but no amount of asking would change his mom's mind as she watched in horror as they climbed the first giant hill, preparing to do a nose-dive that would take them on a journey of both excitement and sheer terror. When the ride was over, and Dad looked like Casper the Ghost, he begged them to let him go again, but his mom said she couldn't bear to watch that ever again.

The years passed, and trips to the amusement park were spent with friends who rode the coaster over and over until they felt perfectly safe holding their hands in the air as the force of the ride lifted them a couple of inches off their seats. He continued his walk, remembering the sights and the smells of popcorn, candy apples, and corn dogs all blending together to create the perfect menu. As more time passed, attendance at the park dwindled because a very large water park was being built just on the outskirts of town. Aside from the giant slides, there were a few rides meant for season riders, and a kiddy land as well. It didn't take very long, and the park he loved shut down. Some of the rides were sold, but some remained just as they were on the last day. Rust had claimed many of the rides, and once colorful signs lay in the weeds, forgotten forever.

As he was about to leave, he took one last walk to the wooden coaster, and hanging by one screw was the measurement sign that either allowed or forbade you entrance. He took the sign with him and would give it a good home in his workshop. Right alongside his other treasures, he found as he walked through the closed and now quiet park of his youth.

Mike  2026                                         

Through the eyes of a 6 year old

 It was 1959, and I was six years old. My memories of that time are vivid and often revisit me in dreams. One such memory was getting out of bed, hearing my mom and dad softly talking and laughing as a Johnny Mathis record played on the phonograph. I opened my door a crack just enough to see them slow dancing, holding each other close, as my mom looked up to Dad's face and they kissed. I held my hand over my mouth so they couldn't hear me giggling as they stopped dancing so dad could put on another record. I can remember the deep red color of the carpet and the smell of cigarettes forming a cloud of smoke, as that was commonplace back then, when nobody knew the dangers of smoking.

The next morning, as I made my way downstairs to the kitchen, where Mom was making breakfast, I heard her humming that Johnny Mathis song, a smile on her face as she stirred the pancake batter a bit too long. She bent down and kissed my cheek, saying good morning, the only way she could say it as dad came in and put his arms around her waist, pulling her to him like the way they danced last night. She brushed him away, laughing and whispering something I wasn't meant to hear.
Dad went off to his job, and Mom got me ready for school, saying we had to hurry so I wouldn't miss the bus that always stopped in front of our house at precisely eight o'clock. So, with my Superman lunch box in hand, I climbed onto the bus and found a window seat where I could look out and see Mom waving and blowing me kisses, like the half-dozen other moms waving and blowing kisses to their kids while wearing housecoats of many colors. I watched as she grew smaller, then disappeared from my sight, and I wondered if she went back inside, put on that Johnny Mathis record, and danced by herself, remembering last night's memories with a smile and a sigh. I was just six years old, but something in my heart told me I had witnessed what true love really was, and it made me feel good, but still made me giggle when I thought about it.

Mike 2026