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