Remembering, or not

 

                                                                Remembering, or trying to

 

Seventeen years old and finding myself on a U.S. Navy destroyer, out to see the world or parts of it. Jail or four years was the choice I was given. Seals and Croft, Carol King and others keeping me from going insane and keeping the steel hull quiet from the constant sonar beeps and heavy seas. Baby powder sprinkled on the passageway floors as we slide on folded blankets like a kid’s amusement park ride but with guns and missiles. Sidewalk cafes in Paris and Pizza in Rome. A bull fight in Spain and Christmas on Gibraltar. Places every young man should have to go even if he doesn’t remember most of it. Grass huts in Africa and a beer brewery in Sierra Leon offering warm beer to a bus load of drunken teenagers puking all the way back to the steel monster waiting at the pier. Rebuilding an orphanage and bringing in fresh water through underground pipes built by young men bettering themselves in their own minds. Finding opium dens on the back streets of Pakistan and twenty dollars’ worth of numbness and visions of the ship leaving us there. Taxis with trunks full of hashish as your mind tricks you with every step on the cobblestone streets of a place you should have died but, somehow once again making it back to the safety of the steel walls. Out to sea again as warm summer breezes comfort you in only ways the oceans can. The smells of the ports remain with you for the rest of your life, surfacing when least expected. Twenty-one years old and saying goodbye to fellow sailors who were your family within the walls of steel, your friends in times of need and faces still seen with closed eyes when you want to remember. Four years of routine broken only by your last step off the ship, looking back trying to put it behind you but never will. Twenty-one and trying to fit back in with those you left at seventeen but those times now seem so distant with no agenda but where would I work tomorrow or if Id even look. Drinking before noon, wasted by five and out cold on somebody’s couch that smelled of urine. Waking up to zeppelin and the smell of weed coming from somewhere in the house shared with runaways and people like myself who were trying to find our way that was takin from us at such an early age. Outside into a hot summer day that made you flash back to a brick street and a vendor offering mystery meat on a stick that you were high enough to eat not caring. How many more days, months even years, would it take for you to find a balance and continue your journey with a sober mind? Fifty-one years have passed since the call of the sea beckoned and I’m sober now for  only ten .I still have visions of things and still stop in my tracks when I smell a certain smell or hear a certain song that will pull me back in time when sliding down a powdered passageway on a steel destroyer in heavy seas, still putting  a smile on my boyish face.

Mike 2022

Keepsakes

 

She had kept just one box over the years. A box containing her most personal memories. It contained hand drawn pictures of tree swings, family picnics and trips to see the ocean. There were photographs of the kids looking so very young and a clay bowl that she remembers using for some cereal the day it was given to her from her youngest son. The milk leaked out a little, but messes could be cleaned up as they so often were. She held onto a piece of her mother’s hair just a small strand held together with a red ribbon, holding back tears that have never dried. Carefully she removed a small glass ballerina her husband gave to her for no reason other than he thought shed like it. She remembered that day and how she whispered in his ear that she would treasure it forever. There were souvenirs from family vacations like a snow globe from Santa’s North pole and a small baby food jar filled with sand from a trip to the beach. So many memories in such a small box but everyone bringing a smile to her face and sometimes a tear she can’t control. She put the lid on the box and put it back on the shelf knowing it wouldn’t be very long until she pulled it down again to help her remember a life well lived and always loved.

Mike 2022

Time of day

 

He sat alone in the time of day he liked the best, the time between light and dark when things quieted down, and the hidden stars began to shine. He sat in a rocking chair he had made decades ago for his wife as she so loved to rock and knit sometimes by the light of a full moon. If he closed his eyes, he could see her plain as day in the chair wearing an apron covered with fruits. She was more of a talker than he was, but he was a good listener and spoke back at the appropriate times.  He missed her that he knew for sure. He rocked and thought about all the life that once called this place home. The few head of cattle and a horse or two over the years. Some chickens and a goat named Billy.  They were all for the kids who learned how to take care of them, and love them, an education not found in school learning. The kids are all grown now with kids of their own who love to come and visit this old place with its perfect hiding places and room to run like the wind without hitting a wall. The animals are long since gone except for old Blue who by his account must be about fifteen years old now. He doesn’t do much anymore but by golly he still tries to run down a bird but mostly gives up before even getting off the porch. He had a good life here by all accounts and someday when the rocker stops rocking, he will leave this house to find his place with his only true love. But not today and maybe not tomorrow because he still has stars to look at and enjoy the quiet of his favorite time of day.

Mike 2022