Any given moment

 She walked slowly through the aisles of the thrift store, an almost permanent smile on her weathered face. Her granddaughter had brought her there, thinking it would jar her memory or show her that a good day was possible.

The old woman stopped occasionally and held something in her hand as if trying to remember it from days long past. Then, with a sigh, she moved on, seeking out just one piece of a life lived when things were simple.

She stopped in front of a beautiful old hutch filled with vintage dinnerware, holding her hand to her mouth in surprise. That's mine, she told her granddaughter. I've been looking for those plates and the stemware as well. I'll need them for the dinner party tonight.

I'm sure they can be delivered right on time, Grama. But before she could say anything more, the woman walked on, leaving the hutch and dinnerware behind her and forgotten.

They spent the better part of the afternoon slowly looking at hundreds of items, some of which she took great interest in and others that she liked at that moment. I'm tired, child, she said, and hungry, too. Can we have a bite to eat at the diner Grandpa and I loved so much? Of course, we can, let's go now. She held her arm and walked slowly to the car. It was only minutes before the old woman fell asleep, only to be awakened once they reached home.

Did you enjoy our day? she asked her grandma. The woman smiled and said she had a wonderful day. She especially loved the root beer float at the diner, which she and Grandpa liked so much. But now I need to rest for a bit, she said. You'll come again for a visit, won't you? The young woman covered her lap and stayed until her grandma fell asleep.

Memory loss affects many, and there is no cure. What we can do is embrace our elders and listen to their stories, even if they don't make much sense. They believe their words speak the truth at any given moment, and we owe it to them to listen.

Mike 2025                                              

As we age

 As we age, we have a chance to beat the odds every day. We are given the time to make good with our past and not dream too far into the future.

Getting older means we've had time to learn and absorb life to its fullest while realizing every day lived is one we will never have again.

I don't remember waking up one day, seeing myself in the mirror, and wondering how I had gotten here so quickly. Who was that person with silver hair and weathered wrinkles? Where did I go?

Aging means accepting the aches and pains, the loss of friends and family, and the realization that one day, tears will fall for you. It means you can get away with things a younger person can't and laugh inside knowing you have.

Growing old is as natural as the rebirth of Spring flowers, which blossom for a while but eventually turn back into the ground. If we've lived the life we were given to the fullest, we will realize that age is who we are from birth to death and everything in between, and it's up to us to fill in the gaps of stories written and those yet to be.

Mike 2025                                                   

Every waking day

 We were only kids when we met in a cellar bar off campus. She was sitting at a wooden barrel bar with two friends, but it was just her that made my heart skip a beat or two. A long-haired guy in a tie-dyed shirt and strands of beads around his neck with a large peace sign, Madallon, was playing songs he wrote and some he didn't.

The crowd was the usual crowd that hung out on Fridays and Saturdays, with Fridays being single nights and Saturdays being date nights. On that particular Friday, I was glad I was single; obviously, she was, too. I mingled around, saying hi to friends from college and never losing sight of her, who, in time, I would have had enough liquid courage to walk up and say hello.

I still believe fate brought her to the bar and stood next to me. Her perfume was a faint smell of lilac. For a microsecond, her arm touched mine as our eyes locked, and she smiled, a smile I still long for every waking day.

We talked well into the night about everything and anything, not wanting the night to end. At the last call, I asked if I could walk her back to her dorm, and she smiled that smile that said yes. The night air was cool, and I wrapped my jacket around her as we walked silently down the quiet streets, not wanting this night to end.

At her front door, I broke the silence and asked her for a date, and she asked when. "Is tomorrow too soon?" I asked, and she smiled that beautiful smile etched into my soul and nodded, saying tomorrow would be nice.

The rest is history. We both finished college and soon after, we became husband and wife. We traveled for a while in an old school bus turned camper, seeing faraway places that called us to visit: state forests, parks, beaches, and lakes where others like us traveled the roads less traveled. Nature at its best surrounded us with peace and harmony among our traveling brothers and sisters, some of whom were still friends decades later.

From a slight touch standing at a bar to a lifetime of love, we've parked the old bus in our yard next to the hen house. Now, our kids play inside, pretending to be on great adventures like the ones we shared with them. We sit around a campfire, where sometimes friends drop in. A friend with a guitar brings us back to a cellar bar, where he was dressed in a tie-dyed shirt with strands of beads and a peace symbol that hangs from his neck.

We lived a long and happy life together, a long-ago memory that turned into many beautiful smiles and a faint smell of lilac I awake to every waking day.

Mike 2025                                                 

My attic room

 Time has ushered in memories I thought were forgotten. Moments so special from my youth fighting their way to the top to help me relive even the most basic of people, places, and things I buried a long time ago.

I remember the first years of my life in a house so small that my room was in the attic. It was a dark, lonely place where my eyes were affixed to the ceiling, seeing watermarks and peeling paint. The wooden ladder that came down from the attic signaled to me that someone was approaching, and over time, I recognized whose footsteps were coming up to my room in the sky.

Anyone taller than my mom had to duck so they would not hit their head on the ceiling with exposed nails. Dad promised to take care of it, but it wasn't until my older sister came up and hit a nail that it got fixed. I believe she still carries that small scar to this day.

I grew to love my solitude in my attic room. It was a place where I could play with my imaginary heroes and act out their superpowers, sometimes with too much noise that prompted a hit on the floor from mom smacking her broom on the kitchen ceiling.

I was fourteen years old when my parents sold the little house and moved to a much larger place, where I had an actual bedroom to myself. Nobody had to duck or risk a nail in the head. It was a great room, but the one thing I remember missing the most was being alone to act out my fantasies with no prying eyes. I even missed Mom's broom banging on the kitchen ceiling, signaling me I was being too noisy.

We tend to forget those childhood memories no matter how important they were. I suppose to make room for the memories we built our life around.

I'm into my seventy-first year in this world, and I'd venture to say my memories of my youth are powerful and wonderful, all mashed together to surface and bring me back to the times I loved the most.

People often ask me how I dreamed up the characters I write about in my books and blogs. I tell them I reach back and pull out memories with meaning, then add a pinch of make-believe, leaving it to the reader to figure out what is what.

Mike 2025                                           

Peaceful forests

 I can find peace in a world of unrest, hatred, and violence as I walk deep into the forest, where the only sounds are the birds, squirrels, and the snapping of branches as I venture deeper. 

It's dark among the giant trees, but rays of light pierce that darkness, acting as my guide, and I follow.

The smells of the forest are like sedatives for me. The rich, damp scent of moss and the bark of the white birch fill me with calmness. The smell of a bubbling brook and wet rocks are all meant to soothe my mind and help me leave the noises and smells of the city at the foot of the forest.

As night begins to fall, I use the lights from the neon city to be my guide out of the forest, leaving behind a place of peace that will always be calling my name to come back.

Mike  2025                                                

Words

 When I take a moment to realize how blessed I am, the moment becomes much more. I can talk about all those I love and who love me in return, and I smile with every passing thought.

There are so many stories to share, and I must endure equal amounts of sadness that flow from my pen to a tear-stained paper. But it's not all sadness—far from it. As I reach into my memories and pull out countless times spent with family and friends, it brings me great pleasure, and thanks for the many memories that will stay with me as so many disappear into the light.

A long time ago, I knew my writing would have a purpose, and one day, it hit me that words were my tool to share my thoughts and express my feelings in a way that others couldn't. I felt blessed.

I've asked myself why I write what I do, and my conclusion was that words have to be spoken through song, speech, or expression. You can't keep words bottled up if you have been blessed with the ability to share them. What I wrote touched a nerve or two and brought a smile or a tear, but more importantly, I awoke a memory for the reader.

Books may have lost their appeal to some with the advancement of digital and audiobooks and a thousand publishing websites eager to tell you your work will make a great Netflix movie—all for just twelve hundred dollars. However, millions of people worldwide still enjoy curling up in their favorite chair and opening a new book, as the smell fills your senses like nothing else, well, maybe fresh-cut grass.

I'll always keep writing without concern about whether people will even read it. I write because I love to, and that's all that matters to me.

Mike 2025