Never ending love

 I close my eyes and see her as she was many years ago. We never had the chance to grow older together, but I guess we have, in a way. I tell her good morning and goodnight every day and send her a kiss upward into the clouds as I fall to sleep, dreaming she was beside me.

We were each other's first love, two teenage kids bound together by a first real kiss that I still taste to this day. We attended our first school dance, where we held onto each other, never wanting the music to stop or to let go of each other. It was a magical night. I go back to it by closing my eyes and hearing the faint music playing as my feet slowly move, and my endless tears of missing her flow down my face.

I hear her voice sometimes, so clearly, I look around me to see if she is really here. Maybe she is, but only in memory. 

Many years have passed, and I have lived a whole life, falling in love and having children who gave me great joy. Grandkids who light up my life and memories that have never let me down. But I can't help but wonder what life would have been had she not died so young.

Sometimes, I felt like I carried on with life because that's what she wanted me to do. One day in the not-so-distant future, we will meet again in the high school gym and dance into the night, not needing to speak but holding each other close, knowing the dance will never end and the music will play just for us.

Mike 2024                                                

Happy 2025

 The decorations are boxed up for another year, and the Christmas radio is switched back to classic rock. A trail of fallen branches leads to the street, where dozens of others line up, waiting to be taken to the landfill. If only they could speak of the memories shared in homes filled with holiday magic just once more.

Now, one week later, the noise makers and fireworks are brought out of the garage, and inside many homes, the celebration of a new year is in full swing. We wonder how many will be awake to hear the bells toll at midnight.

Conversations are those of New Year's promises to lose weight and to stop smoking, be more understanding, and show kindness to everyone, known or unknown.

As the new year countdown reaches one, hugs and kisses are shared, a good excuse to kiss that girl from the coffee shop who you thought never knew your existence. She kisses you back and says she was hoping you'd find her.

Nobody knows what the new year will offer, but we can hope, dream, and, above all, welcome it with open arms, a loving heart, and a belief in ourselves to help make it a very happy new year.

HAPPY 2025!                                   

Mike

Watching over you at Christmas

 They aren't ghosts of Christmas past or spirits back to haunt me. They are my best memories, tucked away and waiting to be called. They are my family members who taught me life and helped me grow. They are my grandparents, parents, nephews, and brother-in-law. They are my sister, best friend, and many close to me. They are my first love and my last. And those who left me way too soon. Many have a difficult time around the holidays, missing those who have gone before us. Still, if you dig deep into your heart and think about all the wonderful times you spent together and all the memories you made, I promise you will find the joy you thought would be gone forever. Just close your eyes and see them together, celebrating, thinking about you and all the love you shared all those years. Raise a glass to them watching over you as you continue your journey, which will one day bring you together to continue where time was cut short, but memories live on forever.

Happy holidays in heaven to our loved ones singing their favorite Christmas songs as we chime in because they are our favorites, too.

Mike 2024                                              

Christmas memories

 As a small boy, my memories of Christmas come out to play every year. I can close my eyes and see my mom in the kitchen, giving new meaning to holiday baking. I remember her making pie crusts. When she trimmed off the excess, she rolled it out, put a heaping tablespoon of grape jelly inside, and baked it until golden brown. It was my favorite treat all year.

I remember her being happy doing her baking. The radio was turned on to a Christmas station, and she sang along. Every once in a while, I would catch her dancing and holding a spatula like a microphone. She got red in the face when she saw me looking.

She loved the holidays, and our house showed that. She insisted on a real Christmas tree that we usually picked out at a local vendor selling trees from Thanksgiving on. Mom ensured we were one of his first customers, having Dad turn a dozen trees around and around. If she liked it, he loaded it onto the car's roof, and off we went, singing Christmas songs all the way home.

Dad's holiday spirit was a lot of work. He hung up the colored lights around the whole house, asking Mom why he had to put them on the back of the house. Her response was so the neighbors who lived behind us could enjoy them, too. I knew he loved her a little more if that was possible. Dad was also in charge of trimming the bottom of the tree, and once again, as he turned it around a dozen times, Mom let him know when to stop. Dad never, well, hardly ever cussed, but watching him try to untangle the lights put away last year in a hurry always got him mumbling something under his breath.

Once the house and the tree met Mom's approval, we kids got our chance to make ornaments that never needed Mom's approval. She hung them where everyone could see, proud of our artistic abilities, which I knew wasn't truthful.

I loved the holidays growing up, and it's all because my parents made sure our home was filled with all the love a home could hold. But it wasn't just the lights and the tree; it was attending midnight Mass as a family, rejoicing in the birth of our savior. Families gathered outside after Mass, shaking hands and talking while the children begged to go home, as Santa would be coming soon.

Christmas morning finally came as we ran downstairs, welcomed by a mountain of presents wrapped in beautiful paper that got shredded with every gift opened. We always seemed to get what was on our list as Mom and Dad sat and watched with tired eyes and the need for coffee.

Yes, sir, Christmas in my house was always special, and as an adult, I tried to copy it. But something is missing now with the passing of both my parents. Their spirits are always with me in memories, and now I turn the tree around and around, finding the perfect one and remembering all that was Christmas in our home.

Merry Christmas, everyone!                      

Mike 2024

Old school biker

 The snow fell like cotton from the sky, coming unexpectedly and staying until everything became a thick blanket of white. He was glad he had gone to the market earlier today, so he felt comfortable. At least he wouldn't go hungry. His apartment was above an old carriage house where pigeons came and went like a city bus, always on time. He made the mistake long ago of feeding them, and now they've become a part of his life. He named each one over time and believed they also gave him a name.

His apartment was small and had little heat from the old water heater, which sometimes worked and others did not. There was no insulation, just old newspapers stuffed into holes in the walls to help keep the bitter cold out. Sitting in the small kitchen, he noticed snow piling up inside the window, and he laughed a little, as it was both sad and typical of his life choices.

He made himself a cup of soup and turned on all four stove burners for some warmth while the soup cooked. He was careful to turn them off, however, as it was a gas stove, and he always had a fear that one day it would just blow up.

Sleeping was his only escape from the cold, as he wrapped up in heavy blankets he was lucky to receive from the mission in town, where he often went for a free meal. The floors were thin, and he could hear the pigeons cooing below him. He wondered if they could survive this frigid weather that seemed to have no end.

Morning came, and he knew that when he threw off the blankets, he would be greeted with a semi-frozen floor and more snow inside the windows, which he scooped up and put in a pan to melt and make coffee. As he looked out through the frozen glass, he tried to remember what would be under the mountains of snow. He recalled his landlord's car being in the driveway, a picnic table close to the house, an old grill, and a rusted swing set with rotted wooden seats buried in a white tomb, hopefully, resurrected when everything melted and the colors returned.

It took weeks for things to get better as the sun melted the snow, and the temperature made things bearable, at least enough for him to venture into the old carriage house with a bag of bird food. He sprinkled handfuls on the floor, and like a beacon, they started coming in and eating like they hadn't done in quite a while.

He wondered how his hog had done during all of this, so he went into the back corner, where he removed a tarp, revealing his 1957 Harley motorcycle, his pride, and joy for many years. There were many times when he feared he'd have to sell it, but somehow, he never did. Some called him crazy, living like he did so that he didn't have to sell it to some wanna-be bikers who never knew the bond between a man and his bike. Someone who only rode on sunny summer days and ran for cover during a sudden cloud burst.

There were still pockets of snow, and he'd soon see blacktop again. He began his routine maintenance by changing the oil and filters and putting the tires back on after storing them in his apartment so they wouldn't freeze and be worthless to him. He had also removed the gas tank and kept it upstairs to prevent ice from forming. Every day grew warmer, and more and more snow melted away, forgotten like a bad cold.

He polished, waxed, and conditioned the leather saddle, rubbing out the grime from his last rides of the coming winter.

Upstairs, he put on his chaps and leather jacket, checked the battery, which was now charging, and put it back on the bike. He put on his gloves, wrapped a heavy woolen scarf around his face, and fired it up. The noise scared the pigeons off, screaming as pigeons do, and after months of waiting, he was back on the road again.

He saw his landlord looking out of her window and waved to him as she yelled over the noise if he was coming back before the snow came back. He didn't answer her, knowing nobody else would rent a frigid apartment that snowed inside and housed pigeons below him. He'd be back, he thought, as he never looked back, only looking forward to open roads and wanna-be bikers he ignored.

Mike 2024                                               

        

Enough said

 Like most writers, I sometimes go blank. No matter how hard I try to put words on paper or screen, I sit at the keyboard, my fingers poised but with no action. I try conjuring up memories of my past, but it's as if I had none. Then, a panic rushes in as I ask myself if I will ever write again.

Sitting here and staring at a blank screen seems useless, but I keep telling myself that words will flow again if I'm patient.

A dozen empty coffee mugs and a pile of dirty plates sit on my desk, and the past week's morning paper lay on the lawn where they were thrown. My voicemail is full, and the mail has gone unopened. I ask myself how long I will go on like this before I snap, but I don't have an answer for that either.

I am trying to remember how long it's been since I slept, showered, or shaved; everything is just one big blank sheet of paper screaming out for words. Then, as if the proverbial lightbulb went on, my fingers moved on the keyboard. Slowly at first, then speeding up to a full gallop, the words racing through my mind at breakneck speed.

I heard myself laughing, no screaming, as the words rushed in with no time for pause because I feared I'd lose them again. I wrote into the night and the next day, finally writing again about everything that came into my mind.

The paper boy looked through the window, saw me slouched on my desk, and called the authorities. They didn't know what to believe happened as they looked at hundreds of pieces of blank paper scattered about and the computer screen smashed to pieces. It seems like another writer with writer's block, one officer said. It's a shame because, in his prime, he was well-known and successful. What was the title of his last book? He asked.

The officer thought for a minute and said I believe it was titled;  Enough said.

Mike 2024                                            

Yellowed candle sticks

 

Most of the colored lights on his plastic tree were burned out, and the tinsel was dull. The cat had made it home, and before long, he imagined the dog would attack the cat and the tree would fall. All these things would have bothered him in his younger days, but he finds it amusing today.

Store-bought cookies replace the real thing, and a Christmas ham is a package of bores head thin-sliced tavern ham.

He listens to the classic Christmas songs and tries to sing along, but they bring back so many holidays spent with family and friends that he chokes up and listens. He still puts out the figurines she loved: the manger scene, a dozen snow globes, an empty holiday cookie tin, and a set of three candle sticks that sat on a window ledge, once white, now faded yellow. Years past, he replaced a burned-out bulb that was brighter than the other two, but that was okay.

He had no plans for Christmas, just like the past thirteen spent alone. He allowed himself to indulge in a snort of Irish whiskey, maybe two, as he searched his memories of holidays passed, re-living the laughter that once filled the house and the joy of children's voices like that of a choir as they did their best to sing his favorite Christmas songs.

Where did Christmas go? He asked himself, but he knew the answer, and his tears began to fall.

As the clock struck midnight, he looked towards the fireplace and remembered all those children who snuck out of their beds only to see the jolly old man himself eating a cookie and putting carrots into the pocket of his red coat. He counted on one of them making a noise so he could look in the direction it came from, resulting in their bare feet running full speed ahead and jumping back in bed. After he and Mrs. put the presents under the tree, he changed out of his Santa suit and put it away until the next year came around.

He said out loud, " So many happy memories," as the last few lights on his old plastic tree finally went dark. The cat came out, and the dog chased it around the tree that finally fell, but that was okay. He thought to himself that maybe he'd get a new one next year, but he doubted that.

Sitting in his favorite chair by the light of three yellowed candle sticks and one bulb brighter than the other two, he felt the magic of Christmas and the blessings of memories that took him on his Christmas journey of life passed but never once forgotten.

Mike 2024

The apartment

 He sat on the only chair in the apartment he had lived in fifty years ago. The wrecking ball was due tomorrow, and all but his memories would go with it. The old house, broken up into three units, was once a thing of beauty that would be a grand lady today instead of being torn down to make way for God knows what.

It was his first apartment since being discharged from the Navy. He was a twenty-two-year-old hell-bent on taking on the world, but settling on a factory job that proved to be the most boring job he would ever have. But his apartment gave him peace and a place to write. The dark wood with a smell of its own takes him back to when the house was a family home with a lot of room for children to run and play. He sometimes heard their soft voices and believed he got glances from them as the ink tried to keep up.

It was in the 70s when he lived in the apartment, often having friends over to drink wine and smoke a lot of weed. Zepplin played on the turn table, and incense choked the air. It was a safe place, a sanctuary for some who walked the roads of America and needed a shower and a night's sleep. Stories were told and listened to with interest, especially when a traveler told us about a place close to here where people would gather in numbers to camp out in a vast forest with meadows and waterfalls. There was singing and dancing to the sounds of guitars and flutes and naked people catching fireflies in the grassy meadows of Zore Vally.

His apartment had life in it, and although he could have done better, he remained there to learn from the travelers and love those who'd been with him for years. He only had a little time left as he opened a case full of his writings from over the years, where he wrote in what he called his wood palace. He read his life's work until the sun went down, and the old house gave him one last chance to write one more story, but he was done and thankful for his visit.

Hearing the roar of the wrecking ball, he picked up the old wooden chair and carried it outside, where the men in hard hats directed everyone to a safe area. The first swing tore through the roof, splintering the old dark wood he loved and sending it crashing down into a pile of junk. It was over, and all that remained was the faint smell of incense and the old chair he once sat on to write his life stories.

Mike 2024                                               

 

Winter woods

 The first cold snap arrived right on time, as the few remaining leaves fell to the ground, putting away their colors for another year and sheltering the smallest of animals. Snow was coming soon as acorns were stored, and finding the last remaining blades of grass was like finding gold. Bear caves were filling up as the sleeping giants dreamed of what bears dream of—resting comfortably with full stomachs. And if you listened carefully, you'd hear small branches snapping as the beavers reinforced their houses. The deer would find anything he could while the fox looked for small prey like rabbits and other small rodents.

Sometimes, a brave or maybe inquisitive deer would venture out of the woods and into someone's yard, feasting on shrubbery and other year-long vegetation, filling himself for the time being.

There were fewer birds this time of year, but the ones who remained sang sweet melodies that were always welcomed. As the first of many snowfalls arrived, a quiet in the woods beckoned me like a call from beyond to enter the white kingdom and marvel at all I saw and heard. I'd spend days out there pitching my tent and building a fire for warmth and cooking. The crackling of the logs was like a song, and the smell was one I always remembered as better than any perfume.

Snug as a bug in my sleeping bag. I'd hear visitors outside the tent and be as still as a mouse as whatever it was. I looked things over and decided I meant no harm.

Come daylight, I'd see the tracks of a deer, and I wondered if I'd ever see her again. I loved my time in the winter woods and often wished to visit again to smell the burning wood and cook a simple meal. To walk among the sleeping giants and set out some pieces of fruits and cheese for the little ones of the woods.

But at least I have my memories; whenever I want to return, I close my eyes and am there.

Mike 2024                                           

Back alley bar

 He sat alone in a smoke-filled back alley bar far from the bustle of the big city. The lighting was dim, as most here wanted to avoid being seen. He sipped on a drink made from god knows what, but he imagined it was made in a bathtub. A lone guitar and raspy voice were stuffed into a far corner and eventually couldn't be heard at all. His eyes bounced from one face to another, wondering the stories they could tell, but most would only plead the fifth.

Their eyes met, and for a brief moment, his heart stopped as her beauty engulfed him like a three-alarm fire. She must have felt the heat, too, as she quickly looked away and gave her full attention to her date. She wasn't the only beautiful woman in here, but to him, she was all that the word itself could mean as he got up and slowly approached her. Was he crazy? He asked himself. Probably, but he couldn't let this go, disregarding his own well-being.

She must have sensed someone near her as she turned around to see him standing inches apart, close enough for him to smell her perfume. He smiled his best smile, and she returned hers when her date took notice and spoke up. "Dance with her, will you?" he said, smiling. I'm sure my sister would love to.

They came to this place for many years, and it never changed except for the people. Soon, booze was legal, and the music could be heard over quiet conversations on the dance floor where they would dance the nights away, falling in love over again and again.

She's gone now and took a part of him with her, leaving only the memories of a small out of the way smoke-filled bar where lovers came together on a crowded dance floor, never wanting the nights to end.

Mike 2024                                                   

  

The steamer trunk

 An old steamer trunk lies in a corner of his home, where he's lived for sixty years. He didn't have a clue what was inside because his wife was the one who kept things, not him so much. She's been gone a while now, but her memory stays with him every second of his days. Not that he cared much, but the house didn't look the same without her. She kept everything spic and span, opening the curtains every morning where he turned on a light and left them closed. You never find dust on her watch. As for him, you could see it in the air.

Life still held meaning for him, as he had his memories and that old steamer trunk he never thought of, and he told himself he'd open it on Christmas morning. When the day arrived, and people everywhere were opening gifts, he opened the old trunk and looked inside. There were layers of old photographs of their younger days smiling for the camera and pictures of the children they had outlived. Digging deeper, he found the garter belt she wore on their wedding day yellowed a bit now, but he remembered her wearing it and brought a smile to his tired face.

She kept dozens of things as each year passed and the children grew up. Clay ashtrays, pop-cycle stick cabins, pot holders, and Christmas ornaments were just a few of her treasures, which he looked at with tears and smiles. Then he found an envelope addressed to him, and he knew it was meant for him to read when she was gone. He set it aside and got a cup of coffee, preparing to read it and wondering if he'd heard her voice as he did. He held the letter in his hands for a moment, seeing her as she addressed it and sealed it with a kiss as she did for every note she wrote to him. Her lipstick kiss was faded, but he held it to his lips and kissed her, remembering the sweetness of her taste.

He began to read her words, telling the story of their love and shared decades of togetherness. She wrote of their sorrows for losing their sons in a freak accident that would change them forever but never would stop her from loving him. The remaining things she wrote were her best memories and her devotion to him, the kindness man had ever known. She promised they'd see each other again one day and that she'd be waiting for him where all the earthly pain they shared would be gone, and she and her boys would welcome him to a place of peace and joy.

By day's end, he had gone through her trunk, removing certain things he wanted to see every day. He placed them on a table, dusted them, and opened the curtains so he could see them.

It was the nicest Christmas he had given himself as he kissed her faded lips one more time And put the letter back in the steamer trunk.

Mike 2024                                  

More than I love you

 Many people have tried to find a phrase stronger and more meaningful than "I love you." A feeling that brings you so much joy and happiness that it eats at your heart like a prisoner of words locked away and can't escape. Eight little letters that have withstood countless years are accepted as the universal phrase of expressing a feeling like no other. But now those words are spoken not out of true love but more of a greeting that, when spoken, seems to lose something in the translation.

You hear those three words spoken in everyday circumstances, like when two lost friends find each other again, and the last thing they say is, "I love you; let's not be strangers again." Or two men briefly hugging and saying, "I love you, man." These are greetings, not the true meaning of a phrase that should be personal and fill your heart with a feeling like no other you've ever experienced.

Saying I love you isn't the same as saying things like I love cherry pie, I love the new Chevy trucks, I love this weather, or I love your dress. The true meaning of love should be in a class of its own, with words that stay hidden until another love as strong as your own unlocks your heart.

So, what could this new sentiment say? Try to find one with as much feeling as possible, but don't count on success. It's like trying to write a new Christmas song that becomes a classic—it's just not happening. Three words, but why not four or five that show how you feel?

You complete me, and I give you my heart. You're all I need to fulfill me. We were meant to be. These are all lovely sentiments, but  somehow none can compare to "I love you."

So I'll keep searching for the perfect words and probably go to my final rest hearing people say how much they loved me. I must tell you, I'll probably turn over in my grave begging to hear more than that.

Mike 2024                                           

A crack in the wall

 She felt a cold breeze, knowing it was the crack in the kitchen wall that she had been going to fix and hoping her grandson would stop by and take care of it for her. But he was a busy young man who didn't have much time anymore, as she sighed, putting on her sweater. She missed her husband, who passed away five years ago now, and not a day passes when she doesn't think about him. He was the handy one, always fixing something around the house, and he loved it. His metal toolbox still sits in the corner of the kitchen where it's been all these years. How crazy must she seem to find herself speaking to it as if it were him? 

Isn't it strange how we can remember the smallest details in everyday moments, but when those details are removed, our life is like looking through broken glass? 

A few days later, her grandson showed up and repaired the crack in the wall using his grandpa's tools from the metal toolbox he once used. Seeing him holding the same tools her love once held brought a tear to her eyes. She reached into her apron pocket and took out a ten-dollar bill to give to her grandson, but he refused, asking only for a piece of pie. How do you know I have pie, she asked. Because you always have pie, he answered. They sat at the kitchen table, the same place he and his grandpa sat, and talked about almost everything a kid wanted to talk about. She looked at him with his grandpa's wavy black hair and smiling eyes. It was as if he was sitting here with them, eating pie and laughing together at what he used to do and say that made him so special in their lives.

With the pie eaten and the dirty plate in the sink, he kissed her cheek and gently pulled away from her grip, assuring her he'd be around more often.

She watched out of her kitchen window as he drove down the driveway in the truck his grandpa left to him. He blew the horn, waving until he was out of sight.

The cold draft was fixed, but she kept her sweater on because it was the one her husband gave her on her birthday many years ago. She guessed shed wash the plate in the sink with no crumb remaining. How many plates had she washed? How many dinners were cooked? Her entire life now reaches for memories before they disappear into the darkness. But she has many, and at her age, she's confident they'll be with her for her forever.

                                                                              

Mike 2024                                                 

lost Veterans

 It was cold outside, with tiny snowflakes barely reaching the ground. The streets were quiet, and the only sound was that of a city bus on its final run. The storefront windows thrilled its last shoppers, two young lovers' arms wrapped around each other to keep warm as they talked about future holidays together.

The bells of St. Mary's tolled twelve times, reminding us of the true meaning of this Christmas Eve as people arrived and found a seat. Candles were lit for souls gone before us, and prayers asking for forgiveness silently passed through the crowd.

Now, deep into the night, children everywhere sleep with dreams of Christmas morning, and the streets are empty except for a lone figure walking towards someplace unknown but feeling at peace as the incense still lingered on his coat and the words of the priest repeated themselves with each step he took.

He grew tired and found a bench to rest on as the night grew colder and a North wind froze everything it touched. A million thoughts crossed his mind as he remembered his younger years when life was good, and happiness filled his life with the love of family and friends.

They found him on Christmas morning frozen to death, and nobody thought the frozen tears on his face meant anything except to him. He was just another unfortunate soul down on his luck alone at Christmas who died of a broken spirit and lonely heart.

There were no whiskey bottles or crack pipes, no wallet or credit cards, just a crinkled one-dollar bill and a small wooden cross around his neck. The church took care of arrangements that nobody attended, and he was laid to rest in a pauper field alongside others who passed into the night and were forgotten.

Too many veterans suffer in one way or another as their world is seen through their eyes only. They are broken and need our help to return home and leave the carnage of battle behind them. My heart cries out to all of our veterans who didn't know how to leave the fighting behind them and, for reasons only known to them, just wanted to be left alone to walk the streets in search of the unknown.

Mike  2024                                        

Thanksgiving 2024

 Look around the table. What do you see? There are fewer kids at the children's table and two fewer settings than last year, as we remember those gone before us. Not too often we have so many relatives and good friends gathered here, but it does the heart good, even if visits are few and far between. It's a noisy room as siblings catch up on news from their towns and cities. Elder folks talk about times past and how the food has remained a tribute to grandparents keeping the old traditions alive.

The older sons helped set up the tables, putting in the leaves to accommodate everyone expected to show up. The girls polished the good silver, which was only brought out on special occasions. But in the kitchen, the real magic happened. Three generations of ladies had a job, and the mood was festive and heartfelt, along with a bottle of red wine. 

Snack trays were put out with mountains of crackers, five different cheeses, and sweet midget pickles that the kids grabbed when nobody was watching. 

When the doorbell rang, everybody went to the door to welcome a weary traveler who took the Red Eye to arrive in time or a distant cousin whose last-minute decision to attend this year was greeted with cheers. Soon, the house was packed with laughter and endless conversation as the wait was over and dinner was served.

An uncle whose age wasn't really known but was thought to be in the nineties, give or take, said Grace as heads were bowed and hands held. He liked to go on and would if his great-grandaughter hadn't cleared her throat and said, "Amen, let's eat."

The entire meal was beyond expectations, and when asked who wanted dessert, most said they needed a little while to let dinner settle. Men and boys retired to the living room and a football game while others cleared the table and began putting leftovers in Tupperware containers for those with miles to return home.

A while later, dessert was served, with an assortment of pumpkin and sweet potato pies, peach cobbler, strawberries with whipped cream, assorted cookies, and Grama's homemade fudge. As the day grew longer and the November air chilled, hot coffee and hot chocolate were served, and small talk replaced loud welcomes and cheers.

The next day, everyone who stayed over helped with the long family tradition of decorating the Christmas tree, eating leftovers, and cherishing the little time they spent together.

I hope your traditions live on with your family and friends, just as I know mine will.

                                    HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

Mike  2024                                                               

Broken heart

 Now I know what it means to have a broken heart. There will be no more walks on the beach or candlelight dinners, no more sleeping late on Sunday, and no more reading the newspaper together and sipping coffee on a rainy morning.

No more stolen kisses in the grocery store, no more Saturday date nights, and no more holding hands while walking down the streets of autumn colors. No more you and me, just me alone with an emptiness that chokes my every breath and weakens my every step.

There are no words to express a broken heart, just the darkness where there once was light and the emptiness that once was full.

Mike 2024                                                        

Clouded glasses

 There is no more genuine love than that for a child. From the innocence of a smile to the wonders of a world yet to be discovered, every moment is a time for growth, reaching out to arms that embrace them, needed or not.

A child can always keep your attention, taking you miles away from your worries and keeping you in the moment with a silly face. They can teach you more than you teach them, leaving you with smiles etched in your memories forever.

With every passing year, you grow older, watching them blossom into amazing people who can make you feel young again. As roles are reversed, you are cared for like you once cared for them.

Looking out through clouded glasses, you see what you remember from all the yesterdays shared and all the love given and received, and all you can do is hope for many more tomorrows.

Mike 2024                                        

Five colors

 He sat on the front porch, drifting somewhere but nowhere in particular. He did that a lot more frequently these days since she passed on to a place she believed in. For years, she tried to get him to join her for Sunday service, but he always came up with an excuse of one sort or another. He could see her in a Sunday dress, her hair neatly combed, and the bible in her hand that she was never too far away from. He buried it with her because she told him to, and he wasn't one to tell her otherwise.

The night air had a bite to it, so he went inside but wished he hadn't because all it did was remind him of her everywhere he looked. He roamed around from one room to another, seeing her sewing bag in a corner where she sat for hours making a blanket for a grandchild or a hat for him that he wore when it got cold enough, even if he felt a little silly in it with its five different colors.

He went into their bedroom, where everything was just the way she had it. He remembered so many times he'd sit on the edge of the bed, her reading, but put down the book to listen to him about one thing or another. They never solved any world problems, but they worked through many things in their world.

He hasn't slept in there since she passed. He couldn't lie there without her by his side, but when missing her got bad, he'd go in and sit at her dressing table, hold onto her perfume bottles, smell her hair in the brush, look into her mirror, and wonder why she had to go first.

When he closed his eyes, he saw her as plain as day, and they were dancing all around the living room to her favorite song, not a care in the world.

He didn't realize just how much he missed her, but the pain was real, and he doubted it would ever heal. He went through the motions of everyday life, going to the places they would go, each bringing a tear he didn't wipe away.

He grew older than he should have from eating his cooking, and not a second passed that he didn't miss hers. He supposed she was looking down at him, getting a few laughs at his culinary talents.

Three years was all he had left before he got called to be by her side again as his broken heart healed. Maybe she mended it with five different colors.

Mike 2024                                     

One love

 I was fortunate enough to have had one true love, someone who made the hair stand up on the back of my neck whenever they were near, the one whose kisses left a taste on my lips I prayed would never go away.

I was attracted to her like no other, although there were times in later life when I tried to find a love as true but never did and had to settle for second best. I know that's not fair, but I won't lie and say I didn't compare her to every woman I dated, lived with, and, in Two cases, married. None of them could ever take her place.

I loved her for a short time before she went to be with the angels, leaving me broken with an emptiness I still feel today decades later.

Her picture hangs on the wall in my study, a bit yellowed now, but her smile still shines through, and her perfect lips are worn away from my kisses, hoping to taste hers again.

I've come to accept the world's loss of such a beautiful person, but I can't accept why she had to go so young. Did she know I'd never be the same without her, and all I had were just memories to keep me from going insane?

It's been forty-some years that I've mourned her, and if I live to be one hundred, I'll mourn her even more.

Is there a bright side to this sorrow I've lived with? I believe there is. One day, I'll be called home and see her standing there, smiling at me with cherry-red lips, waiting to kiss mine. She said she'd been waiting for me for just a few moments, as heaven knows no time. And as she reached for my hand, my youth returned, and we were two teenagers in the deepest of love, walking together in eternity like we should have been doing on earth a very long time ago.

Mike 2024                                         

Writing in darkness

 He wrote by the light of candles. He said it was because he had to pay close attention to ensure his words made it to the paper rather than on the day's unread news. The candlelight chose a specific spot on his work, which was up to him to ensure it remained throughout the pages.

He wrote in silence, as the darkness of night was his favorite time to compose what he hoped would be worthy of his readers. The night was darkness, welcomed as most things slept, assuring him of the quiet he needed to grab hold of memories and other events he felt like sharing with perfect strangers.

Sometimes, he sat in that darkness for long periods when words stayed hidden, and his heart grew cold. No matter what he thought about, it wasn't worthy of telling, as wads of paper littered the floor and grew.

He tried to go back in time to where he felt most comfortable, and the thoughts came easier even though he had no idea where they came from.

Sometimes, that worked as if a switch was turned on, and words once again flowed.

Sometimes, as the sun began to rise, he knew what he had to do, so he snuffed out the candles and welcomed the light of day, the sounds of birds and lawnmowers, children at play, and life being lived. For now, he would enjoy the day, but in his mind, he longed for fresh candles and darkness to unleash a story.

Mike 2024                                                 

One last moment

 One last view of the forest. One last taste of the sea. One last amazing sunset before it's time to leave.

To hear a baby cry once more and one more time to dance. One more chapter in a book I can't leave to chance.

One more moment to hear the birds singing me to sleep, one more quiet memory belonging just to me.

One last time to tell you just how beautiful you are and one last time to kiss you, if only from afar.

One more precious second as the sun goes down to rest, I'll hold you in my arms and cry, knowing I was blessed.

Mike 2024                                       

A town forgotten

 In the distance, a car drove down a deserted street in a deserted town in a forgotten place. As he walked to the beat of snow crunching underfoot, he counted the light poles that still gave light and a traffic signal that stayed green for what seemed an endless amount of time.

He stopped in front of store windows that once a long time ago would be decorated for the holidays but are now boarded up, leaving him only his memories of time passed.

He sat on a bench where dozens of people would sit, waiting for the bus into the city. Where Initials in hearts were carved out, professing endless love that time once again forgot.

He lit up a smoke and watched as he blew smoke rings into the emptiness of the night, remembering days past when everyone seemed to smoke and never gave a second thought that they would kill you. After all, John Wayne smoked.

The sun would rise soon as he took one last walk through the town that time had forgotten. A drunk lay in a doorway of a closed drug store, his empty bottle beside him, and tomorrow, not promised.

At the edge of town, he stopped and looked back at where he grew up and the memories he made there. Now, it was just another whistle-stop he was passing through, hoping for a change but realizing he had just paid his last respects.

Mike 2024                               

    

Moments

 Some called him a storyteller, while others said he was a little outside the box. Whatever he was called, he did have a way with words, and he lived to write them down.

It all starts with a thought, a scent, maybe a song, and then his mind and heart take over. Like paring a fine wine with a tasteful dish, he carefully savors every word and begins to write.

There are times when hundreds of words attack his brain all at once, and it takes everything he has to capture them, arrange them in a sentence, a chapter, and the final product.

He often wonders when the words will stop and hopes he's one of the few who retains his memories and creativity until the moment of death when the final chapter is written, and everything stops or does it?

Mike 2024                                            

Veterans Day

 The sound of artillery fire haunts him to this day. The choking smoke of diesel fuel and the cries of fallen brothers broke him in ways only those who lived it could understand.

Cold steel was everywhere you touched, making you long for home and the softness of anything at all.

Like a lilypad floating on an endless sea, you forget what land felt like as you steam where you're needed, knowing it won't be good.

There is silence among your brothers trying to eat, but food isn't on your mind, and sleep only comes in spurts as the distant sound of the big guns sends ripples through the ship.

Weeks turn into months and months into more months with no word from home, leaving you with only memories to hold onto, along with a tattered photograph of the one you left behind.

Somewhere beyond your sight, a battle rages on, and men are dying, yelling for their mothers who watched them sail off so young and so scared.

It's your turn now as shells fly past you and a brother falls. Another strike and a gaping hole puncture the ship, and another brother cries in pain but can't be heard as more shells find their mark in the darkness of night.

Daylight brings support ships that shield us from further destruction and sinking to the ocean floor.

As we limp into port, an eerie silence fills the air as wounded are tended to, and shock is buried in your brain for as long as you live.

Like all battles, many are lost but never forgotten. The heroes of war don't feel like heroes; they are just thousands of warriors, some who made it home and some who didn't.

On this Veterans Day, stop for a minute and thank those who gave it all so we as a nation could live free and for those who will take their place on distant oceans, young and scared but ready to answer the call.

11-11-2024                                     

       

Mike

Small wooden box

 He had a small wooden box he kept in a drawer that he sometimes opened and traveled back in time to days long passed. With nimble fingers, he turned the pages of his life and remembered when things were simple and held great meaning.

He took out a box and removed the purple heart he received back when he was just twenty years of age and fighting for freedom. A sniper's bullet found its way to his leg and ended his time in the army, but he felt okay most days, and his limp was a constant reminder that freedom doesn't come easy.

He pulled out a picture of his wedding day, which had yellowed over time, and his beautiful bride, Marie. She was his nurse at the VA hospital, where he recovered from his wounds. It was love at first sight for him, but she needed a little more convincing.

The day he was discharged from the hospital, he promised her he'd come back carrying a dozen red roses and an engagement ring. He did, and she said yes. They had sixty years together, and when she passed, his heart broke into pieces he could never mend.

The next thing he removed from the box was a bag of marbles that belonged to their son, who left this world too young but filled their lives with joy and happiness every single day they had together. He wiped away the tears that always flowed when he held that bag of marbles.

There were letters from his wife she wrote to him in battle, sometimes taking months to reach him, but he didn't care because reading her words and smelling her perfumed envelopes got him through the darkness of war.

His son's baseball cap he never took off, a piece of rope he taught him to tie knots with, an old pitcher's mitt, and a pocket knife he thought every boy should have. They were his treasures in the old wooden box in an old dresser drawer under lock and key to preserve his memories, good and bad, happy and sad.

His wish was to be buried with the small wooden box so he would always be close to everyone and everything who gave his life meaning. On a cold and windy day, he was lowered into his final resting place next to his wife and son and his old wooden box that would join him on one final journey.

Mike 2024                                            

The last salute

 He stood on the river bank, watching the retired warship being towed to its final resting place among the others already at rest.

There were no more fierce battles and ports of call where, as a young sailor, he found comfort in a woman he would never see again.

Looking at the rusting ship, he remembered her with fresh paint and the flag flying proudly as they steamed toward yet another battle.

He looked up to the bridge, where he once saw the captain giving orders and officers yelling at kids like him who were scared to death but never wavered in their duties as sailors.

He saw his shipmates operating the guns of war, each shot deafening and leaving your ears ringing sometimes forever.

He watched as the stern became lost in sight as the tug maneuvered the tired lady to her final resting place, where guns were quiet, sailors faded away, and all that she was remembered in the mind of one last crew member who cried openly and without shame.

He saluted the old ship and began to walk away, but not before hearing one final blast of the ship's horn as if she was saying thank you and fair seas to her last remaining sailor.

Mike 2024                                                

I'll be there

 I'm watching over you; that's something you should know.

I'll be right here beside you wherever you may go.

I'll be there for your birthdays, and we'll walk a million miles

I'll sing to your new babies and watch you as they smile.

I'll always be beside you through the good times and the bad

I'll give you peace and comfort because I am your dad.

I'll kiss away your teardrops whenever you feel sad 

I'll plant a distant memory you forgot you even had.

I'll always be close by you to take away your pain

I'll whisper words of comfort in the sunshine and the rain.

I'll always say I love you and hope that you can hear

I'll wait for an eternity and the day you'll join me here.

Mike 2024

                                              

The study

 Silence filled the small room he called his study. He went there when he needed silence so his words would flow smoothly. Outside, the noises of a family carried on without him for a while, at least until his heart had spoken and words put on paper.

There weren't hundreds of books in his study, no certificates of schools attended, or numerous writing awards; just a desk and a chair that looked out of a window into the forest where he got lost until that first word was written.

Sometimes, he'd watch his children play in the backyard, throwing sticks to their dog Skipper, playing hide-and-seek, and playing on their swings, pumping their little legs trying to reach the forest's trees. When they were called inside, he would again look at the trees, a bare canvas for inspiration.

He longed for perfect sentences, and then, like something magical, his pen began a journey that would lead him deep inside his mind and onto paper.

At times, he would go so far back into his memory that he wondered if he'd ever return, leaving him tired and relieved that his mind hadn't been too destroyed by his youth and all he'd ingested in the name of experiment and curiosity. There were moments when he wanted to do those things just one more time, to visit Alice in Wonderland or follow the Yellow Brick Road. But he had a family now, and escaping reality again was too scary.

So he went to his study, the small room once a nursery, and he picked his mind to write about what he saw as he bounced back and forth between reality and a desire to flash back to days in the forest that, for now, he can only look at through a window sitting at his desk looking at the many album covers that took the place of books on the wall. Zeplin, the Stones, The Doors, Jethro Tull, Cream, and more dove headfirst into his mind and have remained a source of his imagination, leading to hundreds of stories, some real and others probably from the deepest part of his mind, that will keep him guessing until the ink runs dry.

Mike 2024                                                

Walking with her

 He walks alone on the beach they once walked on, letting the sand flow between his toes and breathing in the ocean smells. Not many words are spoken as he walks, and she looks for treasures from the sea, always telling him this is the day she will uncover something extraordinary. Every so often, she stops and sifts through the sand, scooping out handfuls and letting it flow out between her fingers with help from an incoming wave. Oh, look, my love, colored glass probably from an old pirate ship hundreds of years ago. A rum bottle, she said, and put it in her pocket to take home, clean, and add to her collection of things found on the beach.

He could see her clearly going about her quest for treasures, letting a tear fall, mixed with the salt water running down his face. Then, he'd find himself alone again except for the memories of their time together and all the adventures they had living a simple life on a beach, her looking for bounty and him looking for her.

Mike 2024                                         

Old friends

 His old guitar leaned against the wall, gathering years of dust. If only it could come out to play one more time. The scars of age were each a reminder of a gig, a concert, and quiet moments in the night when it had to be played. 

He looked at it and felt a closeness, a bond, a friendship that lasted through the years. It was carried around from town to town until it was noticed and heard by some who would make it famous.

But it wasn't the fame. It was because he was a part of a team that sang for the love of playing, so he continued doing gigs in small towns and around campfires, reaching the hearts of those who felt it's every beat and strum like a lullaby to the soul.

It's tired now, like its partner, gathering dust and leaving the music to the younger people, who some say learned from them as they were indeed masters of their craft.

He slowly got up and reached for his old friend, caressing her, wiping away the years of dust, and telling it they had one last song to play. Holding it felt natural as he softly strummed its strings to a song they had written long ago. The music flowed out the window and was heard by a group sitting around a campfire who began to sing along, never missing a note or a chorus.

They did like us, my friend, he said as he set it back, leaning against the wall, waiting for the dust of time to rest on both of them.

Mike 2024                                 

                  

Silent keys

 He sat at his desk deep in thought, trying to find the words to best describe his love for her, but the keys were silent. He tried to remember all she meant to him over the years, all he wanted to write to her, but the keys remained silent.

 He wanted to tell her all she meant to him and how just thinking of life without her made a hole in his heart that could never be healed. But still, the keys were silent.

Then, a memory of their first kiss came to mind, and he could close his eyes and taste her lips. He remembered asking her to be his wife and how she cried with tears of happiness. He remembered being by her side when their first child was born and how they cried together.

Then the keys came to life as one memory after another found its way to his fingers, and the keys sang out like their favorite song. He smiled, knowing his memories awakened the silent keys, as everything he wanted to say to her flowed like a river running straight from his heart.

Mike 2024                                     

 

God rest her soul

 His steps were slow, almost a shuffle. Even the most basic actions required concentration. He was often grateful for the small house. 

He made it to the kitchen and brewed a pot of coffee that would last a couple of hours before he brewed another. It kept him awake, allowing him to live the day on his own terms and not fall asleep every time he sat down. He didn't care much his trousers were stained with things that never made it to his mouth, a menu of meals past.

He turned on a stove burner and heated his wife's iron skillet—God rest her soul. He cracked two eggs into the pan and made his way to the toaster in just enough time to get back to the stove and turn off the burner. He had known for a while now how to time things at his pace. He put the eggs on a plate and got the toast slightly burnt but he would scrape some of it off. His neighbor gave him a jar of peach jam, which he used sparingly to make it last.

By the time he sat down and began to eat, he was already tired, but the wait was worth it. One more cup of coffee and the other half of a partially smoked cigarette completed his first meal of the day—and maybe his last if the caffeine didn't work. He made his way to the sink and washed his plate and wiped out the iron pan the way she showed him God rest her soul. 

Time didn't matter to him anymore. He just let his growling stomach tell him when to eat. He went to the kitchen window and watered her favorite plant, which he somehow managed to keep alive. He figured it was her doing, and he smiled.

He managed to get through most of his day as daylight faded and the house got dark. He turned on a small light that lit the way upstairs, looking at the pictures of the family they hung on the wall from the bottom to the top. Hed stop on every step remembering when all of them were taken during the happiest times of his life.

He sat on the edge of their bed, one they had shared for sixty-seven years, and his tears began to flow. Lying in that bed, he thought of her, and how deeply he loved her, hoping someday soon, they would reunite for eternity. 

But until that day, he would go through the motions of cooking eggs in her iron skillet, watering her favorite plant, and hoping she didn't see him smoking. God rest her soul.

Mike 2024                                         

 

A million miles away

 I know you see me from a million miles away. I sense your presence almost always. I know you hear me when I say your name in a song, and sometimes I swear a cloud is smiling.

It seems like yesterday you left me, but decades have passed, and my broken heart stays broken. Maybe I don't want it to mend so I can still miss you as much as the day I said goodbye

I know you see me from a million miles away, and I see you in every memory that fills my heart. One day, we will look down on the place that was a whistle-stop to eternity and look together.

Mike 2024                           

        

Autumn remembered

 Soon, the mornings will be cool as leaves explode in beauty. The corn fields will be harvested, and children will pick pumpkins, leaving the rest for the earth to take back. There were always Sunday drives to capture the beauty etched in my mind that lasted a lifetime. Children jump into piles of raked leaves, sometimes joined by parents. While pumpkins are carved and set on the porch, waiting to glow by candlelight.

Bonfires and smores, hot apple cider, and pumpkin pies fill the air as only they can. Dozens of trick-or-treaters walk the sidewalks as parents guide the way with flashlights, telling the smallest goblins to hold out their bags.

Sweaters are pulled from dresser drawers, and jeans replace shorts for another few months. Yard furniture is stored in the garage, and lawnmowers are replaced with snow blowers as winter draws near.

Autumn brings so many pleasures and anticipations of what awaits around the corner, but that's tomorrow. Today, we will watch as the colorful leaves begin their slow journey, falling off the trees in a sort of dance and coming to rest on the soon-to-be-frozen ground.

It's my favorite season, and I take in as much as possible to get me through the harshness of what awaits as winter softly knocks but not for long. 

Mike 2024                                              

Washing dishes

 

Washing dishes and looking out the kitchen window at her world had never seemed like a chore. Her once-young hands kept smooth by wearing rubber gloves. She went through the motions, remembering her mother telling her to use plenty of hand lotion afterward, which she does to this day.

The dishes are few now as her husband passed a while back, and she seldom gets visitors anymore except when her daughter and kids come for a week when school gets out. She laughs, thinking about what one child asked her as he stood on a stepstool, her handing him a dish towel and telling him to dry after she rinsed. He wondered, grama, are you poor? Why do you ask? Well, you don't have a dishwasher like we do. We just put the dirty dishes in the machine, turn a switch, and leave the room.

She thought for a minute and then told him that if she had a dishwasher, she wouldn't be able to stand side by side with him and tell each other what their day had been like, how school was going, and anything else that came to mind, and the dishes would be washed in no time at all.

That grandson comes to visit, but not nearly enough now, as he's grown and busy with his life. They still stand side by side, talking about many things, remembering when he stood on a stool to look out the kitchen window as she handed him a dish towel. He didn't need the stool anymore; he just needed her standing beside him, looking out the kitchen window at their worlds.

Mike 2024

One in a million love

 She was his rock, his confidant, and his shining light in an otherwise dark world. They were in love longer than most, taking their vows to heart and never wavering for all sixty-eight years. She remembered the good times and the bad, but every day, they kissed each other good morning. She knew their love was as strong as ever, and she prayed for one more day together to see another sunrise, a full moon, and star-filled nights.

They sat on the porch together in the swing he had made for her, slowly rocking back and forth. Occasionally, they remarked on something they had probably already said a thousand times but still held great meaning to each other.

They talked about the kids, grandkids, and soon-to-be great-grandkids and how much they enjoyed their visits just to watch them grow up in front of their eyes. They spoke of when a tornado came through, destroying the barn but sparing the house, and how friends, now mostly gone, helped build another bigger and better than the last.

Sometimes, during their talks, he would reach for her hand carefully, as she was fragile, and he didn't want to hurt her. She would gently squeeze his hand, letting him know it was all right.

As daylight began to fade, he helped her up and steady himself at the door, leading them into their home, where they shared a cup of tea or, on occasion, a glass of sherry to help them sleep. Neither wanted the day to end, fearing they may not wake to a new day. But it was a reality they saw many times with others their age.

Waking to a sun-filled day, they looked at each other and smiled, knowing there would be another sunrise, full moon, and star-filled night as they slowly rocked in the swing, gently holding hands and knowing their love was one in a million.

Mike 2024                                                                 

Neatly folded uniform

 He knew people sometimes laughed at him, but he grew used to it over time. They didn't know that he defended his country many years ago and came home broken and alone. They didn't know the pain he lived with every waking hour or the pride he still felt when he saw the flag.

They couldn't see the scars he kept hidden or the nightmares that followed him home. All they saw was a broken old man who got in the way.

They didn't know he suffered for them and never thought twice about serving his country. He was one of many silent heroes who proudly wore the uniform now neatly folded in a cedar chest.

War isn't something you forget. It's latched onto you for as long as you try to live an everyday life, but normal doesn't exist for you and never will again.

Now, another white cross marks his grave among his fallen brothers as he finally rests in peace, leaving memories and pain behind him, standing before his maker in the neatly folded uniform he so proudly wore.

For all those who served with pride and honor, I salute you.

Mike 2024