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