Author Mike OConnor: Moonlight Dance.

Author Mike OConnor: Moonlight Dance.: He sat on her chair, the one she sat on when she needed some space. He could close his eyes and picture her fidgeting with her handkerchie...

Moonlight Dance.

He sat on her chair, the one she sat on when she needed some space. He could close his eyes and picture her fidgeting with her handkerchief wiping a tear from her eyes. He had yelled over something stupid, and his anger that should have been left inside spilled out to her. She was a gentle soul, one who never rose her voice in anger, a trait he wished he had.

Her scent was still in the room they shared for over fifty years. Just saying that made him realize how blessed he truly was. He didn’t deserve her, not for a minute. How many times did he tell her that he wondered? Probably not enough. She prepared for the day when their times together wouldn’t be as clear to them, so she made a photo album that portrayed their life together and brief descriptions of each memory.

He didn’t hear their daughter come into the room and sit next to him. He smiled at her, always amazed at how much she looked like her mother. Together they looked through his memories in the big red book, sometimes he faded away, but he came back. The last photo in the book was taken two months ago. They were dancing under the moonlight at the small outdoor band-shell  they had danced at for so many years. The caption read, “Our last dance until we meet again.”

He sometimes walks into town, having a seat at that old band-shell. He closes his eyes and hears the music playing all their favorite songs. Passer byes must surely think he’s crazy this old man dancing alone but looking like he was holding someone. He didn’t care what they thought, how could anyone understand?  He took a walk one day and was late getting home. His daughter worried but thought she knew where he might be. There he was on the band-shell stage, dancing his way across the floor, alone, of course, but not to him. She waited a few moments then gently put his arms around her as the music he heard continued.

‘Don’t you look beautiful tonight” he told her,”Have I told you that lately,” She nodded and let him guide her across the silence of a bright autumn moon.

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Author Mike OConnor: Dusty bottles

Author Mike OConnor: Dusty bottles: Empty whiskey bottles sat where they poured their last shot. Dusty glass reminders of a life thrown away. The runner on a rocking chair wa...

Dusty bottles

Empty whiskey bottles sat where they poured their last shot. Dusty glass reminders of a life thrown away. The runner on a rocking chair was split, but it didn’t stop him from rocking. His blank stare a reminder of nothing left to see. His tobacco stained shirt and trousers Hadn't seen a washing to far back to recall. It didn’t matter to him; nobody was ever going to see him anyway. He closed his place, going on three years he reckoned. Weren’t no customers come by after the factories closed up. He tried to make a go of it, putting out bologna sandwiches for free, but they still didn’t come back.

The town was all but empty, not just because of the shutdowns, but a sickness spread across the land that nobody saw coming. Killed thousands of folk across the nation, but he didn’t get called, no he was spared for reasons he drank about. He lived upstairs just like his daddy and mom did who ran the bar for near fifty years. He took over after daddy passed on, leaving his mom to die of a broken heart four months later. It was just a corner bar, nothing fancy: one pool table and a dartboard in the back room.

They had a  fish fry on Fridays that brought people in from miles around. It was mom's secret batter that made it so tasty. He’d asked her a thousand times what it was, but she kept him waiting until she was nearly gone—whispering in his ear, “molasses,”No more fish fry or games of pool. A silent jukebox with haunting memories of favorite songs. It’s all gone now, and it isn't coming back. Leastwise not for him. The booze was almost gone, maybe a bottle or two that he figured he’d leave behind for somebody to find, they could trade it for something badly needed. Lots of that going on now in this so-called new world.

He raised the bottle of vodka, leaning back in the rocker and tilting his head to accept the final swallow of sorrow and sadness. It happened fast that sound of wood snapping as the rocking chair splintered, his neck smashing down upon a jagged edge of a dusty bottle. Death was swift just the way he would have wanted it to be, I suppose. That place just stands there now waiting for a wrecking ball that’s working its way up the street heading for that nice little family bar that had a great fish fry.

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Author Mike OConnor: Leader of the band

Author Mike OConnor: Leader of the band: My mind plays a marching band of tunes as I journey down the road that is my life. Each turn in the way another note, a song taking sh...

Leader of the band

My mind plays a marching band of tunes as I journey down the road that is my life. Each turn in the way another note, a song taking shape, and a completed melody when that particular road ends. I had written those songs that have played so long, each note another part of who I was and who I am when time and experience will write the final verse.

We all write music. Some to be heard and shared while others remain a melody we keep to ourselves. We sing it out loud when alone with our thoughts, but mostly we quietly hum the words that remain secretly our own. We put our words into visions and our visions to the music that dwells in us all.

I believe all memories we call upon at different times in life have a song to accompany them. Just like music is a part of any movie. We are the leader of the band that is our life, and the music we hear starts with one note in our soul that grows as we grow allowing us to call upon it whenever we feel the need for the melodies of our life.

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Author Mike OConnor: He was a writer

Author Mike OConnor: He was a writer: I try to stay away from the words but, they call to me in anguish and longing. For too many days to remember, I have pulled so many memorie...

He was a writer

I try to stay away from the words but, they call to me in anguish and longing. For too many days to remember, I have pulled so many memories from my past, turning them into sentences and volumes I fear I won’t hear anymore.

I tell myself I can look the other way and ignore their haunting melodies of days gone by, but I’m weak, and they are so persistent. I needed the time away from them, especially those that have not yet happened.


Pushed to write again by voices whispering in my ears that only I can hear won’t stop, and I fear madness lurks around each corner of my life. I don’t want to relive pieces of my past, those times of sorrow and innocence that most forget but haunt me endlessly
.

I will write some day again.I will capture a moment remembered, and the words will once again flow. I will escape the awkwardness of the present and the feeling of uncertainty with a melody of sentences that will stir emotions in the hardest of souls
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I will write until my memories, both good and bad, have been relived and forgotten until someone finds my work stored away in a box with no character.”He was a writer,” they’ll say……

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