Best of friends

 He walks close to me and follows wherever I go. Since a pup, he's done that, and it made me wonder if it was the breed or just him being my shadow. It's been 12 years now since I fell in love with him as a pup, and his devotion to me is something I didn't even have with two wives.

We're growing old together, and our once bounding through the tall grass days are reduced to a slow walk, and I wonder if he's missing that as much as I do. The way he looks at me tells me he does.

His hearing is all but gone, and he doesn't move around as fast, but if there's a snack to be had, he's up and moving as he gently takes the treat from me, holding it by a corner as he goes back under the table to slowly enjoy it.

He used to chase lizards and bark at the ducks in the pond, but he never hurt one, and I wonder if he was just asking if they wanted to play. He could talk when he wanted to, kind of hard to explain, you just had to hear it as he barked in different tones trying to sound like his human being, me.

Like most dogs, he loved being brushed and always fell asleep as I spoke softly to him. I'd finish brushing and softly sneak away, but he senses that and wakes up to be by my side as usual. We both liked the warmth of a late spring day and sitting outside me on a chair and him as close to it as he could manage.

He would whimper every time I closed the door behind me, going somewhere he couldn't, but I'd make it up to him by taking him for an ice cream cone, vanilla being his flavor of choice. He'd finish his first, then stare at me until I gave him the rest of mine. I think he knew me more than I thought.

I thank God for giving me such a great friend, and I carry more memories of him than I could ever remember in a lifetime. As I look at him, I still see that bouncy puppy running to fetch a stick, always to big hanging out of his mouth and dropping it at my feet. I see him staring at me when he had to go outside, and never once in all these years did he mess in the house.

Sometimes when we sit in silence, I wonder what he's thinking. Is he flashing back to our younger days and all the fun we had, or is he thinking what I am, that 12 years isn't enough? One thing I do know is that one day we will run those fields again together forever.

Mike 2026                                                       

                                     

Last breaths

 Those few last breaths fighting not to end but to begin again in a place where it's springtime every day you want it to be. When you've picked a million wildflowers, then place them onto a waiting cloud.

The last few breaths are free of pain as the memories flood back, seemingly exhaling all the wrong you did, but are forgiven with a gentle touch on your shoulder that lets you know the end is near, and you need not fear.

Your loved ones stand by you, taking turns holding your hand now, too weak to squeeze back as painted-on faces hold back the tears, the best they can, walking swiftly out of the room to cry a river unseen and so much alone.

Those few last breaths make some wonder if he knows these are his last few moments, and whether he will be gone when everything goes quiet. Will he know the machines have stopped, and only sobs of sorrow now fill the room?

They will all leave now as his body is prepared, and his last wishes are remembered. Dust to dust, ashes to ashes. No casket, no memorials, and above all else, no grave. He chose cremation, fast and final, and his ticket to eternal peace.

Those last breaths released his soul as it let his human self to follow the angel leading him into the light and eternal rest. All his questions were answered at one time before he stood at the gate alone, waiting for them to be opened or closed for all eternity.

The massive white gates opened slowly as a softly spoken man with a kindness the likes of which he had never known extended his open hands as a gesture to enter. Stepping into the light, he came through to a softer light where he could see millions of souls, both human and animal, together with no cares and endless memories

There were no greetings, only a feeling of that very moment when he knew he belonged. A microsecond of remembering a face or a place, a special event, or a motherly hug to stay with you for just a moment on your journey.

Beautiful doesn't do justice to the pillow-soft clouds you could feel free to hitch a ride with to yet another place, leaving you in awe. More beautiful than a field of roses or stars, you could touch as they welcomed you anytime.

Oceans of blue, clear water, you could look into at the millions of sea life swimming free with no chance of hooks. Some of the larger creatures that once scared you become friends, allowing you to jump on for the grand tour of God's creations.

Death isn't something to be afraid of if you've tried your best to live a good life. God knows this and so much more. All of your fears, your questions, and doubts vanish into another realm where every day is one more truth spoken, one more chance to question anything. And one last breath to take you there.

Mike  2026

AS A WRITER, I FEEL THE URGE TO WRITE WHAT I'm FEELING, AND I MEAN NO DISRESPECT TO ANY RELIGION AND THEIR BELIEFS.

                                                              

Where do the words go?

 Where do the words go when the fingers stop moving? Are they gone forever or just playing possum to get the creative juices going again? Where do the memories go when you believe you've written about all of them?

Where do the stories go when they've all been read time and again, and new ones are in a corner of your mind refusing to come out? Maybe it's time to stop looking.

I'm 72 years of age, and I believe I can say I've spent over thirty years of that writing about this or that, mostly about memories I didn't want to forget, and it turned out I have a gift for remembering pieces of my past from infancy to the present. To me, their building blocks and then a game of fill in the blanks.

To date, I've penned over one thousand very short stories, published three books, and thrown away scraps of jibber jabber not worthy of sharing. And what saddened me at first is that most of what I've written hasn't been read. There may be some truth to the saying, " You have to be dead before your work is noticed. Don't panic, I don't plan on going anytime soon.

Even though there are a few cobwebs in the old melon, I continue every day to find something new to write about. And it amazes me that I can still tap the keys and let my fingers do the talking. I've visualized a loud voice saying, STOP, that's enough but I ignore that voice, believing it's a bad angel who I can banish with just one sentence.

So I suppose I'll forge on, digging deep into my mind and my heart to try and find new meanings to old memories that I can turn into something when read, which will stir some memories for you, bringing a tear or two, maybe some laughter, and above all, will take you to places long forgotten.

Mike 2026                                                          

Bottoms up

 Louis Armstrong played on the juke box as a generation of post-war revelers danced the night away. They never forgot where they were when the bombs fell and how the world changed before their eyes. Most were in their late teens, early twenties, and answered the call to duty both here and abroad. The men who worked in the factories left those jobs for the women to take over, while the men marched off to war with promises to return, but so many didn't.

In base camps just miles from the action, a make-shift nightclub was made. A place with a wooden bar top made from pallets covered with the tops of ammunition boxes. Somehow, a juke box made its way there, and no one asked how. Some say it disappeared from an officers' club. Booze was rarely an issue, as certain supply personnel made sure a few bottles destined for various commands came up short that no one ever missed.

It was a happy place where thoughts of loved ones back home were eased with a couple of shots and a dance with a cute nurse.  That makeshift bar helped many of them cope with the ravages of war as they remembered dancing with their best girl back home in a smoke-filled bar and stolen kisses.

Now here they are again in a club with a polished bar top and glasses suspended from the ceiling. Soft lighting and a juke box allowed to be played until happy hour ended, when the band showed up to play well into the night. One by one, the aging soldiers and nurses danced to the juke box and the songs they can't forget and don't ever want to. They let their minds recall the good times that seldom outweighed the bad, like kicking up their shoes to a jazzy number on the jukebox, dust flying on the dirt dance floor, and that eighteen-year-old soldier who wouldn't take no for an answer when he asked the cute nurse for a spin around the floor.

Now, even though their years are limited, the few remaining heroes climb up on a barstool and order something strong. The bartender flicks a switch, and the juke box comes alive with all the songs they remember from those dark days they tried to forget but still can't, and soon there are none.

 I like to believe their minds are at rest and have forgotten the bad, the young men lost, and the timeless scars they carried with them for so many years. I hope they're all together again in a place they dreamed about, where the jukebox plays, and dust flies off combat boots and nurses' shoes. Smiling faces and whiskey toasts to make it feel more like home.    Bottoms up

Mike 2026                                              

Autumn by choice

 Winter's white gives way to springtime green, overtaken by the summer's heat and the colorful months of autumn, waiting to explode in all its splendor. I find beauty in every season, each flooding me with memories I keep locked up until I choose to remember them on a cold winter walk, a springtime rain, or a summer's night on a swing built for two. But it's autumn that has always held a special place in my heart, as cool air fills my lungs, gasping at the beauty of the leaves in autumn's finest colors. It's autumn, and I remember taking walks with my mom in a forest of amazement, where falling leaves floated to the ground, creating our own carpet of colors we slowly walked on as we talked about most anything, like moms and sons often do.

Autumn brings back memories of burning leaves and carving pumpkins. Raking piles of leaves only to jump into them as dad pretended to be angry. Trick or treat and warm pumpkin pie. Apple cider and picking apples in Mr. Jones ' orchard. Autumn meant sleeping with the windows open and covering yourself with a blanket grandma made years ago. I do find love in all the seasons, as each holds memories of its own embedded deep within my heart, but it's autumn that captured the most heartfelt memories that will lead me to the heavens as I gently walk on a carpet of colors, reaching for my mom's outstretched hand just ahead of me, where the light awaits and I never have to leave.

Mike 2026                                                      

suicide hill

 He wasn't scared, he told himself as his buddies cheered him on from the bottom of the hill. They looked so small down there, like small versions of themselves. This was the first time for him sledding down the giant hill, as he was younger than they were by a couple of years, and all of them had already taken the plunge several times. It was known as Suicide Hill, the drop to hell, and more names to describe this rite of passage every kid seven years and older had to bravely do or be labeled a chicken and worse.

He'd never been so high up before sledding down the much smaller hill for as long as he could remember. It was fun, unlike the pictures in his mind of him racing down a mountain so fast that the runners on his sled caught fire, ending with him crashing into a tree and passing out.
His friends continued cheering him on, telling him that if he didn't go right now, they would leave him and label him the chicken of the day. But he wasn't the only kid up there, he noticed. There were four of them, all getting the courage to jump on their sleds, and all being cheered on by the little versions of themselves at the bottom of the massive hill.
He spoke to the other kids, saying they should all go down together after all, there's strength in numbers, right? They all agreed and laid out their sleds next to each other, close enough to touch mitts and wish each other good luck. Within seconds of nosediving over the edge, they separated, one crashing at take off, another hitting a kid on a toboggan, and the other kid screaming his head off as he reached the bottom, where his buddies slapped him on the shoulders, congratulating him and welcoming him to the big boy hill.
As for him, well, he shot over the edge like a missile, using his arms to try to steer the runaway sled, but it had a mind of its own as his speed increased and his thoughts were all panic and the realization that he'd never see his family again. He heard himself screaming like a little girl as the ice from the sled's runners threw snow on his face, covering his goggles and leaving him blinded for the rest of the way down. His life passed before him as he waited for the worst to happen. But something was wrong. He quickly wiped the snow from his goggles just long enough to see he had crossed over the yellow tape warning of extreme speeds, possible injury, and even death.
Then, like a slow-motion movie, he felt the sled coming to a stop. His buddies were running to him, asking if he was all right. They couldn't believe he would sled the extreme hill that couldn't be used because so many people had been hurt racing down at breakneck speeds. He even heard that one older kid attempted the massive hill, and his runners separated from the sled, sending him screaming down the hill on a sled with no runners.
He became a sort of legend that day when a 7-year-old kid sled down Devil's Peak and lived to tell about it. He is in his thirties now and often brings his kids to the smaller hill, telling them, once upon a time, there was a massive hill that caused many injuries, and because of that, the county came in and leveled the hill and built a hill just for skiers.
Did you sled down that big hill, Dad? His kid asked him. Let's just say not only did I sled down, but I crossed over to the massive hill, at forty miles per hour and with snow-covered goggles, and did it with my eyes closed and my heart in my throat. Would you ever do that again his kid asked. Oh yeah, he said in a heartbeat.

Mike 2026                                                   

Age is more than a number

 At one point in my life, I never saw myself as being old. I'd see the older folks sitting on their front porch, visiting with a neighbor they've probably known for more years than I've been alive. I'd like to know what they talk about, and what their generation faced, like wars that took hundreds of thousands of lives, most just boys who left a heartbroken family behind. I often found myself trying to imagine all the changes they went through, but the numbers are too great.

The great depression, standing in bread lines and hording pennies to buy a treat for the children. Hand-made toys carved with a pocket knife, so there would be something under the tattered Christmas tree, a throw-away left behind, and hand-me-down clothes that rarely fit. Men standing on corners through every kind of weather, hoping to be picked for a day's work. But usually goes back home to his family empty-handed.
I look into the faces that time, weathered with tear ducts long ago dried up, no more to give. So many stars in the windows telling the neighborhood their boys had served, and the pride they feel can't be put into words.
I feel the emptiness they feel every day as I see them looking toward a place I guess only they can see and feel. Their own private slide show of carefree days of their youth, before time took over, catching them off guard as it did to me.
I can't tell you where the years went as they all blended into one life, my life. Aside from the white hair and skin that don't fit anymore, I feel like I did as a young man, out to conquer the world one day at a time, but a little bit slower. Soon, I imagine I'll have a place on the porch and wave to my neighbor as I've done for too many years to recall. I'll stare into space, where my memories seem scattered as I try to remember the good and the not-so-good.
Growing old isn't a curse; it's a blessing we've been given, a chance to look back to the spring dance where you met your soon-to-be wife. The birth of your children and that new house you had built, where you'd live for sixty-five years, making memories all along the way.
Mostly, as I look into the eyes of an elder, I believe they are seeing the faces of family and friends that have entered the light before them. I believe they see them as they remembered them when their hair was brown, and their skin was tight. When they could dance the night away and steal a kiss under the street light. Now I see myself as I once saw others, and it's all okay.

Mike 2026