TRICK OR TREAT

 Little ghosts and goblins run from house to house as parents watch  them closely, making sure they say thank you for all the future cavities. It doesn't seem so long ago that I was running from door to door, putting goodies in a pillow case that got heavy with every doorbell rung. I yelled for my sisters to catch up as my mom stood nearby with a flashlight to guide our way. It's my grandkids I watch now, at least the little ones who grow so fast it won't be long, and they will answer the door for those ghosts and goblins. Now I sit by the window and, every so often, take my dentures out, scaring the heck out of the little monsters. You're never too old for trick or treats. HAPPY HALOWEEN!

MO

Loving Autumn

 It won't be long, and the colors of autumn will be replaced with a blanket of white. So take my hand and walk with me through the small town we call home as we show you God's work in all its splendor. Stop walking for a minute and look up at the maple trees lining the street, their leaves multi-colored, creating a picture once seen and never forgotten. Look down the side streets as children jump into piles of freshly raked leaves, their parents laughing, remembering when it was them who jumped. Autumn means bringing out the jackets and your favorite scarves and boots for those who can't wait. Autumn is apple cider, pumpkin pie, and giving thanks for the blessings we've received. It's family and friends together again, and the voices of children being children filling the house with laughter and love. Autumn is something so beautiful we hold onto it for as long as we can before those blankets of snow creep toward us, and we string colored lights to cover the white. All seasons have their beauty, but mine happens to be autumn, which is one masterpiece everyone can relate to.

MO

How I see it

 He walks alone, but he is not. Her hand still holds his; at least, he sees it that way. They laugh and walk through an autumn meadow where the colors take your breath away, as does her beauty. At least, he sees it that way. He talks out loud at times, not caring who may hear. After all, he spoke to her every day for sixty-seven years. Why stop now, or at least that's how he sees it? His daughter looks out the window and watches him slowly walk down the dirt road, waving his arms and laughing, sometimes stopping to make a point about one thing or another. He seems happy for those moments he has with her mom, and why should she or anybody take even a second away from him? At least, that's how she sees it.

MO

Transistor radio

 Clothes blow on the line in a summer breeze as the top ten hits play on a red, maybe light blue, transistor radio. He's coming home today, and you didn't want to look like Casper, the ghost, so you're lying on a blanket, the one your mother gave to you, and you couldn't bear to tell her how much you disliked it. But it serves you well for this task. As you leaf through the pages of Glamour magazine, your thoughts are with him and your thanks to God for his safe return. The taxi stopped in front of our house, and my legs grew weak as I watched him walk towards me, that huge smile I loved so much stretching across his beautiful face. I ran and jumped into his arms, our bodies together again, our desires too strong to ignore. Now, we lie together on a blanket as the wind blows the clothes on the line, and the top ten hits play softly in the distance on a light blue or maybe red transistor radio.

MO

Faded

 I wore a hat like my dad did almost every day. Mom said I had to let my scalp breathe or, by eighteen, I'd be bald. He wore his hats until they were threadbare and faded from the sun, while I had to replace mine more often as my head grew along with the rest of me. I would watch him take his hat off to wipe his face, then do the same thing, only to get salt in my eyes and a silent scream. I'd catch him looking at me with a smile as I did everything he did, only slower, as he wiped away more sweat or maybe just some salty tears. I'm grown now with a son, a shadow who tries to keep up with me and wears a faded old hat his grandpa gave him. He's lost in it right now, but he will grow into it one day, and the cycle will continue as well it should.

MO

Flow like honey

 I've wondered when my days of writing would come to an end. When the words stayed buried in my mind, stories forever untold. Like my body, my mind has slowed, and with it, gratitude for words written and words told to sleepy eyes in mother's arms or reading under the covers, the moon a flashlight guiding you to every word as monsters waited in the darkness of your room. I've wondered how many of my stories touched someone who knew the loss of love or loss in general. How many tears have fallen, and how many smiles have turned into glorious laughter echoing through the halls of life? I've wondered when the writing would end, but I've realized that even a slow pen is better than no pen. The words may only flow like honey, but inside of me, there is another story to be told, no matter how long it takes.

MO

Numbers game

 I can't see to the end of the road anymore, yet I know it's there somewhere between the rows of corn and fields of strawberries. I'll never grow tired of the smells out here where summer rains linger, and soft breezes move the hanging sheets like a chorus line in a faraway city. It's been a while since I counted my footsteps from the front porch to the mailbox that sits by the road, but they don't change much except maybe get a little slower. I reach and look inside, but the box is empty, which is typical because bills are paid online, and writing a letter with scented paper is long forgotten. I stand there for a bit in case Ray, the mailman, is running late, but that is just wishful thinking as he is the poster child of the mail service and never lets anything stop him from his appointed rounds. I turned and headed for the house where supper would be cooking, with the smells soon reaching my nose and grumbling stomach. Four hundred forty-six steps is what I counted as the screen door slammed behind me, and the only counting was the number of times I asked for more.

MO

Salty dogs

 This is where old sailors come to rest, where tides roll in and out. With no land in sight, just twelve knots forward and endless stars to guide you through the night. This is where the mermaids come to say hello and lead you to Neptunes' land, where you'll live with other salty dogs right where you belong. You'll hear the props of the boat above that brought you here now, heading back to shore. The dried teardrops of loved ones remembering you as the quiet takes center stage now and forever more. I swim with others and alone in spirit form, water rushing through my gills as I move like a dolphin with speed and hairpin moves through the cool water and the wonders yet to see. I am the salt of the sea right where I need to be. Farewell, my earthly sailors. You have many seas to sail. And when your time has come, and you can say you've rung more salt out of your socks than most have sailed on, we will watch crystal waters turn gray with ash as you're welcomed to Neptune and a sailors well deserved resting place.

MO

How often?

 How often had he opened the front door and closed it behind him? How often did he look at that door before unlocking it to enter again? And how often did he not enter but quietly backed off and disappeared into the darkness of a place where he wasn't judged or screamed at like a madman? Life is too short to keep wondering if you'll turn the key and walk inside or stay away until silence is the only thing to greet you.

MO

Bad raindrops

 Instead of vivid color everywhere, there's gray all around me. Like being stuck in the middle of a rain cloud, waiting my turn to plummet to earth below. Who in their right mind would want to be a raindrop in another life, not me. It is probably more fun to be the spot it landed on, like someone's head or hat, maybe on an expensive pair of shoes or a designer purse being held overhead to attract even more drops. Some drops are lucky and meet death in a community puddle where hundreds of drops fall and spend the following few hours dodging the footsteps of those running away from the billions of drops now falling with a fury. Soon, the gray disappeared, replaced with blue skies and puffy white clouds so proud of themselves it made me want to puke raindrops. Two can play this game, I said as the sky turned black, skipping right past gray and opening up, spilling more drops than could ever be counted. Don't fool with Mother Nature. She gets what she wants when she wants it, I said as I watched umbrellas in every color of the rainbow fly past me, leaving behind soaking-wet people who weren't laughing. Not one bit.

MO

All that's left..

 All that's left is time. I've used up my prayers, favors, and dreams over the years as my children got older and had to wonder sometimes who would outlast the other. I continue to pray it will be me. My steps are slow now, but once upon a time, I could run like the wind chasing my youngest's kite as the string slipped out of her small hands. I caught up to the wayward kite hanging onto a small branch just inches from the ground and heard my child's laughter as she clapped her hands and jumped up and down with delight. I was her hero, and when she grew up, she was mine. As we grow older, we are blessed with slowing down as it gives us more time to remember all we never want to forget of a full and busy life. Close your eyes and see the faces of those you love the most. Keep them closed as you see before you the houses turned into homes, and the family that made it all so. Smell the roast cooking for Sunday dinner as the family arrives to fill the home with smiles and never enough hugs to go around. It's all about time now, as my life winds further down to an almost full or empty hourglass, and I dare not ask for more, as that would truly be selfish. Isn't it wonderful all the magical things these tired eyes have seen? Isn't it worth telling about my adventures with the mermaids and King Neptune himself, making me a believer?

From the shores of Greece and Spain. Italy and Africa. And places whose names can neither be pronounced nor spoken. A grass hut with the secrets of opium at your request for twenty American dollars. Enough now, least I go on all day and night and then some as my book flows through me, coming to rest on stained parchment with ends burned from a carelessly placed oil lamp. Do you hear me now? Can you possibly understand that my life story is in the words I write,

and the stories read to those with an interest. The Sunday dinner is ready, and the table is filled with smiling faces, now too hungry to hear the ramblings of an old man who's closer and closer to joining his ocean family in the silence of the deep.

MO

Clarity

 I often wish you were here with me, walking in the park or at the shore, not needing to speak as actions speak volumes, don't they? It's been so long since I saw you, heard your voice, and never grew tired of having you next to me. I've re-lived hundreds of memories that, after so long, I struggle to remember, but your smile manages to come to me whenever I close my eyes, telling me it will all be good one day. That everything forgotten will be restored in clarity. And all those feelings that have remained with me for so long will spill out of my heart and into yours as we begin another lifetime together forever in love.

MO

Still here

 His boots made a tapping sound as he made his way to the small stage in a bar called No Name Tavern. The joint was crowded for a Wednesday night, mostly young folks who attended college a couple of blocks away. The tavern had been here for longer than he could remember, but he knew it was the first place that let him play a couple of sets, and if the crowd liked him, maybe more. That was forty-some years ago. He went by the name Matt, no last name, just Matt. His hair was snow white and just below his waist. Somebody told me he started growing it the day of his first gig and never stopped. The ladies liked it, and he had to laugh inside, wondering how they'd react if they saw him bald as a cue ball. He had to admit it was a bitch to keep up with, so a while ago, he hired a pro to take care of it, especially on nights he played. That would be Ruth, who stayed with him for thirty years. In a month, he was going out on tour with the Winters brothers, a well-known band from the seventies who still knew how to rock the house down. They mainly played smaller venues like beachfront taverns and college halls, just roaming from town to town on a pre-selected schedule that would keep the bus running well into the winter. It also paid him enough to live okay for a few months. In between gigs, he played at the tavern to the delight of those college girls who always wanted to touch his hair every chance they got. He still had some lead in the pencil, but the memories kept him young, and the looks of people passing by whispering something about his hair or his choice of clothes and jewelry always made him smile because he knew they could only ever wish. But he would continue rocking the roofs off anywhere the road wanted him to go, where the music called his name.

MO

Autumn fun

 As a young boy, I would lie on the cool autumn grass, looking up at all the colored leaves falling from what seemed like giant trees. I told myself I couldn't move no matter what as leaves of every size and color fell around me, beside me, and if I was really lucky, in my open mouth waiting. When I grew tired of that game, Id raked a pile of leaves, and with a running start, I landed in the middle, completely hiding myself from my mom's call to supper. In the evening, I would gather the best leaves tucked safely in my coat pockets and carefully place them between sheets of wax paper, which I would then take to school tomorrow to enter in the best leaf competition. I love Autumn and all it brings with it, like pumpkin patches and hayrides: Apple cider and candy corn. Trick-or-treaters and carved-out faces on pumpkins of every shape and size. It's too bad it doesn't last longer, but one thing is sure: Autumn will give up its splendor to make room for a winter wonderland and a year to think about next year and all it will bring.

MO