His room

 As a child, he would look up at his bedroom ceiling at the stars his dad hung. They glowed in the dark, giving him a sense of calm on what used to be many sleepless nights. On his nightstand was a small lamp that went around and around like a carousel. It softly played the music of days past when they went to the county fair. It helped him remember happy times and not scary monsters under his bed.

His grandma made him a blanket he was wrapped in when he was born. It became his security blanket until he probably should have let it go at an age when it was too old. Something about its smell and softness kept it in his box of treasures and not the trash.

His bedroom was his sanctuary, with shelves filled with childhood treasures: his rock collection, model cars, airplanes, and, for some unknown reason, his collection of gum wrappers. His walls were covered with posters of his superheroes and paint-by-numbers he loved doing under his desk lamp at night. He had an old wooden box where he kept his comic books, some worth a few dollars, he was told.

Monsters didn't have room under his bed, but his skateboard and boxes of games did. But he was still cautious whenever reaching under there. 

His room was filled with his treasures and safety measures. It was a place he grew up in that changed right along with him. Over time, new posters hung on the walls, and his collections were mostly tucked away in his closet. Trophies were displayed for his achievements in sports and other competitive things he was good at.

In his room, countless goodnights and prayers were said, dozens of books were read until he fell asleep, heartfelt words were spoken, and tears sometimes fell. When it was time to go off to college, his room was always waiting for him, and with each visit home, he went back in time to the place where he grew up, where monsters hid under the bed, and stars filled the ceiling with light and a carousel went round and around until he went to sleep.

Mike  2024

Heart and soul

 He sat under an ancient Oak while the rain landed around him. Clear bullets from the heavens quenched the earth and offered relief from the heat of summer. He had walked deep into the forest—how long he didn't know—but it was the place where he felt peace and the never-ending silence he needed. 

When he could find the perfect vine, he would wrap himself within it like a newborn, safe and secure. It was his cocoon, allowing him to peek out at the big and small creatures who may have smelled his scent but knew he meant no harm.

The rains retreated into the heavens from which they came, leaving a musty smell, and the sounds of the frogs returning to serenade him.

He left the forest after the sunset cast an orange glow woven between the trees, and his heart and soul were whole until the next time.

Mike  2024

COMMENTS PLEASE

 I am trying to increase the number of comments on my posts. I don't know why I haven't done this before now. I intend to create a book using these posts, and it's essential that I receive good, bad, or indifferent comments from my readers. Most posts are very short, so making a small comment will take a little of your time. Also, if you like what you read, pass along the link to my blog to your followers. Thank you in advance, and I look forward to reading your thoughts.

mikeoconnorauthor.blogspot.com

Thanks 

Mike

Chances and challanges

 I've cheated death more times than I can remember. Fast cars and bikes, drugs and alcohol, and two packs a day. Storms at sea, working as a roofer, and everyday chances and challenges that shadowed me. 

Some say God won't give you more than you can handle, and when your time arrives to leave this life, nothing can stop it.

Over the years, I've been fortunate enough to write many stories and sentiments that one day will either be discovered or lost for generations when a distant friend or relative will find them and read about life far back into the past. 

This brings to mind the life of discovery my grandparents lived when electricity and the telephone made life easier. Running water and indoor plumbing were only affordable for the well-off, and Henry Ford started something that would never end. Theirs was a new life with challenges and chances they were willing to take to make this a better place to live.

Moving decades into the future, writers like me will be considered odd, outside the box, and maybe a little crazy, and they'd be right.

I don't care about the future because it doesn't belong to me. I was given a certain amount of time to try and tell stories I found deep in my mind and my heart and share them with anyone who would read them today or a hundred years from now.

I believe I was given a silent gift that hopefully reaches those who feel the way I do about lessons learned, chances and challenges, and jumping straight out of the box.

Mike 2024

The pumpkin patch

 She looked so tiny, hidden under the covers, so warm and content, that I didn't have the heart to wake her. I'll let the smell of the coffee brewing do that. 

It was a beautiful, cool October morning, and it was the day we would harvest the pumpkins. This year's crop was good; it looked like our roadside stand would be filled with future jack-o-lanterns, pies, and decorations. 

She came out and smiled at me as she joined the farm workers, putting pumpkins in the wagon attached to the tractor my dad used for decades. I tried telling her every harvest she didn't need to help, but after a while, I gave up and understood.

With hundreds of pumpkins of all shapes and sizes at and around the roadside stand, the cars began to arrive. Kids ran down the rows seeking out the perfect one, and this went on for as long as the parents allowed, telling the kids to pick one out and bring it to the stand where apple cider and homemade pumpkin bread were waiting for them.

The day before Halloween, when pumpkins were seen on every porch, we would take the remaining ones, the ones with flat backs, no stems, too fat or too thin—the orphans, we called them. These misfits were cleaned and carved, then lined up from the house to the stand, proudly displayed with their own candles. I counted fifty this year that shined brightly behind the crazy faces so lovingly carved.

Car horns beeped passing by with kids shouting approvals we never grew tired of hearing. But there was one more time-honored tradition after the ghosts and goblins had finished counting candy and other treats when the pumpkins that once glowed brightly now sat with distorted faces, ready to be disregarded, as another Halloween had passed.

I would hitch the wagon onto the tractor my dad used and loaded all the fallen soldiers into it on the way to the fields, where we fed them to the awaiting cries of hungry animals. If you ever want to see what makes a pig smile, give him a pumpkin. I believe you'll smile too.

Mike 2024

Coats of Winter

 I stomped my shoes in the snow to warm my feet as I waited for the city bus, which always ran late. My coat, a hand-me-down I picked up at the Goodwill store, barely kept the cold air off my skin, and I think I shivered for three months out of the year. 

I worked the midnight shift, which allowed me to spend some time with the kids before school and when they got home. My oldest shared that coat I wore, and the boy got a hand-me-down from a neighbor that didn't fit very well, but it beat freezing. 

I couldn't sleep well when the sun was shining; heck, I didn't sleep well anytime. I wanted more for my kids, more than I had, but I didn't have answers for that, and it kept me awake most days.

We barely got by, but we were happy or pretended we were. I would tell my kids that we were lucky because the streets were filled with those who had even less than we did. 

I remember waking up one day to the song of a Robin, and I smiled, wiping the sandman away. Spring had finally arrived, and the hand-me-down coats of winter hung on hooks until the cold winds blew again.

Mike 2024

My first house

 The first house I remember as a child was falling around us, but Dad would do his best with a hammer and some boards to keep the cold outside where it belonged. The small fireplace helped, and Grandma kept busy knitting socks for all of us for extra layers, she would say. It didn't matter that we had to walk to school and back Mom bundled us up in the morning, and our teachers did that job at the end of the day. Heading home meant frequent stops for snowball fights, making snow angels, and checking the pond to see if it was frozen enough for ice skating. When mom heard us stomping our boots in the mud room, she came out laughing at her little snowman, quickly removing those frozen clothes and putting on our warmest pajamas.

Hearing the crunch of tires in the driveway, we knew Dad was home, and we pressed our faces on the window, waving as he picked up some snow and made a snowball. He threw it at us very softly, as he didn't want a repeat of last winter when he threw it hard enough to break the glass. After a hot supper, Dad settled down to read the newspaper, and Mom made us take a hot bath and finish our homework.

I remember many things about that little house I grew up in, but the best memory I have is even though it wasn't much, it was ours and filled with more love than the biggest house on earth.

Mike 2024

Country road

 The old country road seemed longer than he remembered. It had been too many years to recall, he thought, since he and his mule had cleared it leading up to the house. He smiled, remembering the sunflowers that grew on either side that his daughter planted and how strange it was that every once in a blue moon, a single flower would sprout up and stand tall after all these years.

He remembered the road that led home from the fields he had worked for so long he had forgotten it and the countless times he and his wife of sixty years would walk hand in hand down that road, sometimes in silence and sometimes to discuss important matters like how many kids would be coming home for Christmas.

That old dusty road held many memories for him as he shuffled his way down to check the mail, hoping to find a letter or postcard from a loved one. However, the box was empty that day. He heard her calling his name to come up for supper, knowing she wasn't done cooking yet. His steps were slow now, but she had learned over the years when to heat up the skillet, so his supper was piping hot.

Now, each time he walks down that country road, he remembers his life and the people in it. He remembers the old farm truck, the tractor, and his son's jalopy built one summer, as well as the countless walks that always led him home and to her.

Mike 2024

Words

 He doesn't say much these days. He figured he said what was important. He talked a lot as a child, always having to answer questions and read stories in school, and then more talk at home when everybody spoke their piece around the dinner table. He fought to be heard as a teen and devised clever words to show his intelligence as a young man. It seemed to him all he did was talk. Taught his children with words that would remain with them and told his wife he loved her with verses and sonnets retrieved from his memories. Truth be told, he loved words as they comforted him in times of sadness and great joy. He was a storyteller who shared words for others to enjoy as much as he enjoyed writing them. Now, the words have all but gone silent. As he wrote his final chapter dedicated to those he brought a few moments of joy and maybe a quiet tear.

Mike  2024

Seasons of love

 When I was fifteen, I walked her home from school. I carried her bag and held her hand in mine, no matter the weather. I liked winter the most as she let me wrap my arms around her to keep her warm. She was just a whisper of a girl whose beauty has always stayed in my mind and my heart, that she stole so very long ago. 

In the Springs of our love, we walked through the woods, seeing how life had come back from the harshness of winter fury. Brown turned to green, and our love grew with every new bud.

The summers of our love were filled with trips to the lake, where we played in the water like kids, splashing and swimming into each other's arms, drifting in our feelings, which we hoped would never end. Some nights, we would climb to the roof, lay a blanket down, and watch the stars. Laying side by side, our bodies were close, and our desires strong.

The Autumns of our love were as splendid as the colors of falling leaves. We'd hunt for the perfect pumpkins in the farmer's fields, drink cider, and talk about the years ahead with a white picket fence and two kids, a boy and a girl. But reality had a different meaning, as I joined the Navy right out of high school, and she pursued her dream of becoming a fashion model.

Countless letters became fewer as two hearts, once joined in an unbreakable love, moved forward alone. She left this world too soon, and my heart shattered, never to be healed. Decades have passed, and I remember her every day. I can hear her laughter, feel her gentle touch, and feel the pain of losing her with every breath I take.

One day, when my time has come, she will be waiting for me with laughter, tenderness, and answers. We will walk in the springtime woods, swim in the summer lake, and find that perfect autumn pumpkin. Winters will see us holding on to each other, never having to let go.

Mike  2024

Autumn pond

 I remember what I was meant to and forget what I was not. I remember the keys on my desktop, little reminders of stories told, and I remember how the words flowed like a strong river current. I remember the music and the smell of incense burning. Behind closed eyes, I see the candles glow and dance to the gentle breeze, my mind at peace with itself for now. I remember laughter, road trips, and good friends and lovers. If only I could go back in time to carefree days and experience it all again, but my memories will have to do as I tap out words and stories. Some read, others only my reminders of times gone forever fading into the mist on an autumn morning pond.

Mike 2024

The farm

 The evening brought the sound of rain hitting the old tin roof of my grandparents' home. Tucked away in a Holler far from the city, it was where they called home for over sixty years. They choose the life they lived never regretting anything especially their love for each other. I would visit them as a young boy, learning the way of the land. Grandpa gave me a little too much rope, Grandma would say, but she knew neither of us would listen, so she just asked God to keep me safe. 

I was seven when he taught me to drive the tractor, and I spent many happy hours plowing the tobacco fields as Grandpa sipped some iced tea on the porch, smiling and waving. He showed me how the tobacco was hung to dry in the barn and told me I was a natural-born farmer. I spent eighteen years of my young life with them and learned more than any book could teach me.

Grandpa passed away first and left Grandma and me with broken hearts. She held my hand at his funeral, whispering to me how much he loved me, but I knew that. I loved him back and held onto my memories for the rest of my life. Grandma joined him two years later, and the old tobacco farm was left to me. Time had taken a toll on the old place. Even the soil was tired of producing crops, and I had a life in the city, so I sold it and paid one last visit, sitting on the weathered porch sipping iced tea and waving to my memories of Grandpa as he plowed the fields of his yesterdays.

Mike  2024

 When did the springtime of youth turn into the raging storm of old age? 

When did the bounce with every step change to the shuffling of slippers?

When did I get old? Why didn't I see it coming? I looked into the mirror to shave or jokingly count the wrinkles, which eventually became like road maps to my life. I still laugh, but it's not the laugh I had when I was young. It once came from deep within my heart, and now you must listen for it or look into my eyes and see the silent laughter. Growing older lets some memories fade away, but blessed are we who can still reach back into our past and smile.

Mike 2024

Ghost train?

 An old steam locomotive lies in a forgotten field covered with vines. Time is disguising it as it is reclaimed by nature. The wooden box cars have rotted, leaving metal hinges and door handles swinging in the wind, playing a song no one will hear. The passenger car, with its once elaborate seating made of leather, is home to rats who, along with time, took all the beauty away. The club car, once a small gathering place filled with laughter and song with bottles of fine liquor, is now filled with broken pieces of glass, never to pour again. The tables and chairs more food for termites and beatles. The caboose was once where the mail was carried in burlap sacks; some were still tied up, just dust and lost letters never to be read. Decayed Packages ride the rail towards someone eagerly waiting but only disappointed when the tracks remain quiet. How long has it been hidden in the weeds? Something tells me others like me have explored the wreckage and wondered where the skeletons were. Was it a ghost train? Who knows? One thing is sure: I'm out if I visit here at night and see a conductor waving a lantern.

Mike  2024

His woods

 He walked in the woods while other little boys played stickball and teased the girls. It was a lonely place filled with voices heard by those who would listen. He connected with the trees and those who dwelled in the protective branches. They spoke to him with sounds and sometimes quick actions to escape something that must have seemed so large. He learned to walk quietly, and in time, the creatures of the woods didn't fear his presence. Like his ancestors, he had to hunt for food. It was an honor to take the life of an animal that gave itself freely to me with sadness but also understanding in his eyes.

He could hear the kids laughing and playing in the distance, never caring who or where he was. He was the odd one. Don't pay any attention to him. Others chimed in. He supposed things were said to hurt his feelings, but words can't hurt if you don't hear them.

The woods and all their wonders became who he was as he aged, and in time, he walked away from the noises, smells, and lack of kindness forever. Deeper into the woods, he ventured, learning, feeling, and, as he liked to think of himself, a Stuart of the forest. He had no contact with life outside of the woods. All he needed was within his reach. Time passed but held little meaning for him. He didn't need a watch or a calendar. The woods told him what season was beginning and ending and when to prepare. It wasn't because he disliked people that he lived this life. He sometimes came across others like himself who walked away. He found a sense of brotherhood talking to them but knowing their paths would never cross again.

He lived in the woods and would die in the woods. He sometimes wondered how he would end. A bear, a blazing forest fire, falling down a slippery slope. Who knows, but whatever the way, he was good with it as long as his body returned to the soil of his beloved woods and his God claimed his soul.

Many years ago, a group of nature lovers came upon a run-down cabin deep in the forest. They found artifacts of hand-made garments and crude tools. There were faded pictures half-covered with moss showing a family and a smudged mark of a young boy with a vision not shared. Tattered furs hung by hooks to cure left unattended for many decades, and empty canned goods that once held seedlings waiting to grow up but never did. Broken snow shoes, a makeshift sled, and a small pile of firewood covered in vines were another vision of who this man was. 

His God called him home one cold winter day as he prepared his supper. His weathered hands held onto the old photograph clutched with purpose and memory. His place in the world was this crude cabin he built himself, which he seldom left because there was no need. Now, as he looks down at his life and the brightly colored backpacks of the nature walkers, he is at peace, realizing that after all this time, some people maybe did care a little bit about who he was and the chosen life he never wanted to share.

Mike 2024

Tree soldiers

 As I walk among the three soldiers, I pause to look up and wonder what they have endured to be where they are today. In the dense forest, there are many who have gone undisturbed, never feeling the sting of an arrow or lead ball now and forever embedded in their bark. There are those who never heard a child's laughter as they wrap their arms around them playing hide-and-seek, and many of these majestic wonders go to eternal sleep, having been blessed with a lifetime of silent growth. As I continue my walk, I see the white birch standing tall, and I reach back in history, seeing the people of the past stripping the bark and making a canoe to get to other places or hunt for waterfowl as the river guides the way.

My love for the trees in the forest and the small animals dwelling within them is a part of who I am. In years past, my grandmother and I walked into the shade of the tree soldiers, away from the noises of life, and sat down on the soft moss, where she told me stories of the land and the respect it deserved. She passed a while ago, but I continued our walks with her memory always within reach. I can still hear her soft voice teaching me the ways of those gone before us as the gentle breezes blow and my tears fall on the soft moss of the forest.

Mike  2024

Hoping to be read

 I've been asked where the ideas I write about come from. 

When I sit down to write, I grab a passing thought and begin. Sometimes, it's a place or a person or a strong feeling. Whatever the reason I have for writing, it's who I am and how I see things. I choke up hearing songs that move me or watching a child with her first bottle of bubbles. I never wipe away a tear but let it dry where it stops. I mourn the loss of a friend or loved one and do so with written silence. Not all writers research. Some just put what lives inside them on paper, hoping to be read. I tell stories that may or may not refer to anyone I know, but seeing a familiar face or a voice I hear in my head will inspire me to create a character around that. 

Looking in the mirror, I see many faces of myself: my inner child, my rebellious teen, and a weathered old man trying to complete sentences. Being able to bring these reflections out of the mirror and create a story around them is my most treasured gift. Writing isn't all about selling books. It's about telling stories that come from deep within you. It's your heart, soul, and understanding of a craft you do not have to make difficult. Writing is personal but also shared. It's a voice only you can hear and hope someone will read.

Mike 2024

Dirty laundry

 I watched her as she hung clothes on the line to dry. She looked like she was in deep thought as she took a shirt from the basket and held it to her face. I wondered if she was checking to see if it got clean and smelled good or if she feared the scent of another. She looked lonely, standing in a summer breeze, her sundress blowing ever so slightly. When the last piece of laundry was on the line, she picked up the basket and walked slowly back into the house, leaving her doubts behind her in the autumn breeze.

Mike 2024

A healed heart

 They didn't argue about many things in the years they had together. Sure, there were what I'd call Spats, but they lasted only a short time. And making up was always fun. He was a farmer, and she was a farmer's wife. They worked together side by side for fifty years, never knowing where the time went until one day, darkness settled into the old farmhouse. He was gone in a second when lightning struck him as he tried to get one last bale into the barn. She was a tough woman and continued working the farm the only way she knew how, but without him by her side. One Spring Day, she drew her last breath as she sat in a cluster of wildflowers, looking at their farm, their dreams, and their faith in being together again. They found her there at peace, clutching his favorite hat with a smile on her face and a healed heart.

Mike 2024

Spirits good and evil

 The spirits of those trying to find their way have found me and my old trailer. I guess you could say I'm a borderline hoarder, someone who's always been a collector of the strange, the old, and the vessels for lost souls. Some of my items belonged to the spirits who wanted to reconnect with them to feel a sense of when they were alive. So, they visit me in the darkness, some playful and others as serious as it can be. I've been awakened by black floating sheets with no faces, just eyes staring into my soul. They often came within inches of my face, leaving me to wave my arms frantically and try fending them off, then realize I was awake.

What I call the white spirits appear both day and night, usually playful, as they race through my trailer, omitting very soft sounds like a language of their own that I can sometimes understand if only a few words like Its ok, or No fears but always just a couple of words. The one that said my name and then the word Mother, well, that shivered me timbers.

People have asked me if I was afraid of the spirits passing through my trailer, and I said I was not. They are just lost in a world they don't belong to anymore, trying desperately to find their way. My trailer became a stopping place for them to reconnect with an object or a picture, and who knows what else is bringing them back to the life they once lived, if only for a brief moment. I believe the dark spirits don't want me here among their things and try to scare me to get out, but I am not going anywhere. I am the caretaker of the old, the antiques, the strange, and more. And I don't take my job lightly. Bring it, night stalker.

Mike 2924

Young Love

 I'll think of you when I remember my youth and the things I'll always cherish. We held hands as we window-shopped, dreaming of someday having that red couch you would stare at until I squeezed your hand gently, and we moved on. I stopped at another store where hardware of all kinds lined the walls, but only one thing caught my eye, and I froze in place, staring. A John Deer lawn tractor with all the attachments, That yellow and green, a symbol of quality and long life. We laughed as we walked to the next window—a glass showroom where six new cars and trucks shined like a new coin. I want the red one, you said, to match my couch. I chose the green pickup truck. After all, every farm needs a truck that matches the tractor.

We continued our window shopping and came to the only place we could actually buy something: ice cream. I loved the smell of an ice cream parlor: the stainless-steel coolers and the sweetness of dozens of toppings. In a glass case were homemade chocolates of every kind. Trays of them in assorted goodness. Peanut clusters, cherry-filled chocolates, solid squares of solid chocolate, and so many more. The endless sound of mixers making malts and shakes filled the air as the laughter and excitement of children pointed to the flavor they wanted in a sugar cone. We pooled our coins and ordered a chocolate shake with two straws. We left the parlor and entered the darkness as stores began closing for the night. We strolled, holding hands, until we reached her house, where I saw her father through the window reading the newspaper or at least pretending he was. I saw her mom peering out of the curtains, quickly ducking back so she wouldn't be seen. There is a lot to say about first dates and first loves. And having the gift of memory keeps those times alive and ready to be remembered and lived again.

Mike 2024

When she left him

 When she left him, he smiled for the last time. He kept those smiles close to his heart, where only he could see them. 

When she left him, he cried his last tear. He kept that tear close to his heart where only he could see it.

When she left him, a piece of him left, too, and his life would never be the same. Late at night, when the darkness was upon him, he thought of her, and his smiles turned to tears, and only she could see them.

Mike 2024

Truth be told

 He'd had enough of mainstream America, the countless herds of people jockeying their way through the crowds to arrive with minutes to spare at a job he hated. There were a few smiles on the streets, and all eyes looked away, not wanting a confrontation this early in the morning. He wasted precious time communing outside the city on two buses and a subway ride from hell. Punks who should be in school roam from car to car, taunting everyone just trying to get to work. He tried to intervene one time, but a knife was no match for his empty hands. The tip of the blade penetrated his shirt, leaving a blood stain as a kind soul reached into her purse and came to him with a small first aid box, which she used to patch him up for the time being.

The office where he had worked for eighteen years had left a scar on his soul. The sounds of computer keyboards clicking away like a beat for a lousy song, endless pots of coffee always brewing and tasting like dishwater, stale donuts, and rotting food in the breakroom fridge. Lunch enabled him to go outside to sit on a bench covered with graffiti, mainly gang tags and words that should never be written except at the gates of hell. A thousand cigarettes were snuffed out by workers late for returning to their jobs.

The rides home on buses and trains were a blur of colored graffiti on any structure not yet tagged. Empty trash cans remained empty, as it was easier to just drop your garbage wherever you wanted to. He was grateful he got home just before the darkness of night brought out the worst of the worst. Robbery, rape, assault, they all came out at night scoring drugs of choice, vomiting in any alley dark enough where remnants of used needles and homemade pipes scattered around the filth of what was once a beautiful city.

Life is about change, and most change is good. At least, that's how I like to remember it as I hide my face in a newspaper I've already read twice.

Mike 2024

Autumn

 I smelled the wood shop on a cold winter's day. Just off in the distance, I heard the tap-tap-tap of a blacksmith's hammer as he forged new life into a piece of steel. Life in the country was all I ever wanted, even though the days were filled with work that stretched into darkness.

 I never grew tired of sitting on the porch as stories were told and the sounds of laughter filled the air. The smell of a Sunday dinner, a gift given to say thank you for all we have, a grandkid sitting on my knee, another playing marbles in the dirt, biding his time before the screen door opened and Grandma yelled at him to get cleaned up for dinner.

Every season had meaning and gave me reasons to love each one. My favorite was Autumn, when the colors were at their peak, and the smell of pumpkin pies cooling on the window ledge filled me with a sense of happiness I couldn't describe.

Apple cider, roasted chestnuts, Pecan pie, and a rocking chair were all I needed to be happy. Family and friends gathered to share a meal; little ones chased a chicken, the smell of burning leaves, and a chill in the air. All the things I love are alive in my memories of Autumn.

Mike 2024

No regrets, just memories

 He had given up most of his possessions, telling himself he'd looked long enough at knickknacks and junkyard stuff that took up space. He took his time going through things and saying goodbye if it didn't make him smile or shed a tear. He had stopped going to yard sales and thrift stores a while back; he didn't need more of other people's memories and forgotten history. He kept all the precious items his kids and grandkids made for him over the years, each holding a special place on the old shelves he found at someone's curb, waiting to be crushed and dumped at the landfill.

Yellow squares stood out on the walls as pictures he cherished were taken down and neatly packed away to be seen another day or not. His grandparents' house was handed down to his parents and then to him, where he raised a family. He took down his big brother's Army picture; he seemed so young and proud. A tear dropped onto the dusty picture of his wedding day and the promise of a long and happy life with the girl of his dreams standing beside him for over sixty years. Photos of the first Little League games and graduation days. Dance recitals and family picnics all lined the walls of a happy home.

The boxes are packed, waiting for the moving truck to arrive. He had one last chance to sit in the rocking chair he made with his son for the school wood shop class, remembering a lifetime that sped past him that he never thought would end up with him going to a place where others like himself went to get even older but never a burden. His house was empty now. No new memories, just ones he struggled to keep. No regrets, he told himself as the old rocking chair was loaded onto the truck, and he took one last look at everything that meant anything to him. He wiped away the tears as he stood in front of the house his grandparents built, wondering how long it would be before he was reunited with those he loved. Soon enough, he told himself as the taxi pulled up, and he cried unashamed, waving goodbye to a well-lived life.

Mike   2024