Kitchen window

 Standing at her kitchen window, she looked outside, remembering days and decades past when her children played, their voices still echoing in her ears. She stood alone, the quiet only broken as a flock of birds headed South to escape the coming cold of winter.

Her tulip bulbs were planted, each one receiving a word of encouragement as she felt the rich soil one last time until winter's harshness gave way to spring's rebirth.

She didn't mind being alone most of the time as she had her chores to keep herself busy and her memories to fill the emptiness and quiet. She sometimes thought she was being punished for something and her sentence was life alone, but those thoughts left quickly when the phone rang, and her eldest child called to say hello.

She stood at her kitchen window and wiped away a tear rolling down her weathered face, knowing that one day, another Mom would stand where she once did, watching her children play as a sudden feeling she couldn't explain came to rest upon her heart.

There will be no more kitchen windows, no more stirring memories, and no more being alone as she stands in a field of tulips surrounded by family and friends with open arms.

Mike 2025                                              

Where do I go today?

 Where do I go today? To whom do I think about and put into words? Where in this endless world of ideas will I stop and push pin the exact location where the story is born? What period will enter my mind? Will it be the twenties or thirties, maybe the seventies, when life was filled with colors and wildflowers? Everything is a story waiting to be written, like pairing lyrics with melodies.

Will I task my memories with choosing who, where, and when the story will begin and end? Or do I wing it and see what transpires? Where do I go today as my fingers await a command to start, and my mind and heart obey?

A story is nothing more than a fleet of ideas crowding my mind that could explode if not written and, even worse, forgotten forever. Telling stories to me is as personal as the words themselves jumping off the paper and speaking to me.

So where do I go today? I don't know yet, but I'll get there as the rhythm of the keys pounds out words that will join other words as a story emerges. And a huge smile crosses my face, knowing I know where I'm going today.

Mike 2025                                                

Patchouly

 Sitting on a bar stool alone with my thoughts, I was brought back to reality by the smell of Patchouly. It's been a while since I smelled that scent and even longer since I would drown myself in it. I remember back in the 70s, nine out of ten so-called hippies smelled like that magic oil. During those years, I was a free spirit who grew my hair and wore tie-dyed t-shirts. I had a fringed jacket and a small bottle of Patchouly in my pocket. My jeans were hardly ever washed, and showers were few, so every so often, a dash of the magic oil was dabbed on, and all was good.

As I scanned the bar, my eyes stopped on a lady sitting alone in a booth, and I knew I had to meet her. As I approached her, she smiled and softly said, "Yes, it's Patchouly." She wore a free-flowing dress with dozens of bracelets. Her long silver hair shone like moonlight, and her skin was tanned by many the summer suns.

She asked me to sit, asking the waitress for another glass. "How about a glass of Boons Farm?" she asked. "Goofy grape?" I asked. Strawberry Hill, she replied. We finished that bottle, and I felt like I was in a time warp, that all those years behind me had resurfaced right here in the booth.

I can picture you, she said, with long hair, tie-dyed shirts, probably jeans that needed washing, and, of course, a small bottle of patchouli tucked away in a pocket. Am I right? She asked. You are, I replied. And what about you? I began. I bet you live in a cottage with a beautiful garden tucked away in the woods, with the birds singing and the small creatures coming to you without fear. You make candles with the scent of lilacs, jasmine, and Patchouly that you sell at the farmers market. Am I right? I asked.

She said we're a dying breed. Many free spirits have left this earth, and those remaining try hard to hold onto the lifestyle we so loved. Homemade tye-dyed shirts and living in the woods all summer have been replaced with weekend trips to the markets and roadside stands where they point and laugh at the likes of me. But they have money to spend, so I smile and wish them peace.

We sat in that booth until closing, afraid this could be the last time we felt full again. Our memories of those happy times would someday leave us as we went our separate ways, leaving behind empty bottles of Boons Farm and the lingering smell of Patchouly.

Mike 2025                                            

Was I dreaming?

 She came to me in a dream, or so I thought. She was nothing more than a white light with no form or substance, just a voice without a face. I was sleeping yet wide awake as she told me it was all right and not to be afraid. I couldn't answer her even though I heard my voice saying I was not scared of dying.

A constant buzzing sound filled my room like a swarm of bees in quiet mode. It was relaxing and soothing to me in this confusing moment. Time was lost as seconds turned to minutes, and others joined us, each with the voice of a loved one soothing and peaceful in these unexplained moments.

Was I dead? Did I pass in my sleep? Or was it just a dream, a prelude to the real thing? Then I woke up, and my room was empty except for me and the occasional buzzing of a bee outside my window. I lay in my bed, remembering everything in detail. I felt like I was chosen to cast away all doubts of heaven and hell existing. How could I not believe it now?

My life continued, and I chalked it off as a powerful dream with images I couldn't stop seeing and voices that cut through silence without speaking.

Was it a dream? I don't think so. I want to believe they were here to give me a glance of time after death and to fear nothing as eternity awaits me, and I am okay with that. After all, the alternative is something I'd rather not see.

Mike 2025                                                  

Natures Symphony

 She sat on the porch alone, slowly rocking back and forth to the rhythm of a songbird. Where are you? she spoke, scanning the land she so loved. Where are you hiding? She wondered as the nature symphony played on.

She stopped rocking for a minute and then started again, this time to a faster rhythm. Soon, the sounds of the leaves blowing through the trees joined her, and the crickets chimed in. An owl began to hoot, and a distant clap of thunder kept the beat.

She enjoyed her nature symphony so much, a gift from God, she thought. Soon, rain began to fall, and the tin roof became its own band, drowning out everything else. Thunder could be heard in the distance as the last flash of lightning requested an encore.

She got up from her front-row seat, breathed the sweet air, and went inside. Closing the door behind her, she wondered if nature's symphony would be back this way anytime soon.

Mike 2025                                                  

Springtime splendor

 A springtime shower cleansed the remaining patches of dirty snow, leaving behind a pathway for new growth.

Windows are opened, saying goodbye to winter's recycled air and filling the house with the sweet smells of Spring.

Children jump in mud puddles as barking dogs join them, giving in and rolling in the puddles to the children's delight.

As the rain stopped and gave way to sunshine, the silence of winter was replaced with the sounds of birds singing and all the beautiful songs of Springtime in the valley.

Soon, tulips and wildflowers will bloom, and once frozen ponds will thaw. New life will be welcomed as proud mothers care for their young everywhere, from barns to forests.

Roller skates and bicycles replace ice skates and sleds as once-frozen fields turn green, and baseball takes center stage.

The splendor of Springtime is so short-lived. It is a time for rebirth, reflection, hope, and faith for what lies ahead as springtime shoots become the year's crops rooted deep into the nourished land.

I'll never grow tired of Spring, like an artist's pallet of colors splashing beauty across the land.

Mike 2025                                            

Easter memories

 My sisters were dressed in their Easter outfits, mini versions of moms, and me in a suit soon to be outgrown. A family picture with the Easter bunny will find its place in the photo album and other memories throughout the years. I remember once the picture was taken, Mom told us to hang up our Easter clothes as we'd be wearing them tomorrow for church.

On a springtime day in my youth, colored eggs were hidden, as were our baskets overflowing with colored foil goodies, jelly beans, and one larger-than-life chocolate bunny that Mom cut into chunks and froze for an occasional treat long past Easter.

As a family, we made our way up the stone steps of the church, careful to avoid the last remaining piles of snow that could ruin my sister's Easter shoes. 

The church was a splash of colored dresses and Easter bonnets. The smell of flowers mixed with perfumes and aftershave was almost too much to bear. People smiled at each other; some you knew, and others were just filled with the spirit of the day.

Even at a young age, my attention to the priest's words stayed with me throughout the day and beyond. While some gathered outside after the service to chat and catch up, I chose to wait in line to receive the priest's blessing. I told my mom it made me feel closer to God.

Back home, we changed our clothes as Mom made us brunch, and we emptied our baskets, trading different-colored jelly beans and other goodies buried in the fake grass.

Amped from eating too much candy, Dad told us to go outside and burn off the sugar we'd eaten. So, putting on warm clothes, we jumped on half-frozen puddles and made snowballs out of dirty snow, which would be the last snow we saw for a while.

Later, Easter dinner, which included a huge ham and all the trimmings that took up the entire table, was enjoyed along with laughter and another family memory in the making.

I hope your Easter is filled with new and old memories and a freezer full of chunks of chocolate to be saved for another day.

                                            HAPPY EASTER EVERYONE!

Mike 2025                             

With age

 With age comes wisdom and questions about what lies ahead for us. We ask ourselves if we did everything we set out to accomplish or at least gave it our best effort. Did we pass on to our children values and traditions that were years in the making? Did we make more memories than we could ever remember, and did we know true love at least once?

With age, it seems we become targets for ridicule we don't deserve, but we take it with a grain of salt because we realize one day it will all be forgotten, replaced with apologies.

Age is both a curse and a blessing, which we must accept as the cards we were dealt. Looking back, I know in my heart I tried to live a good life, but like most, I stumbled along the way and spent the rest of my life making amends.

I tried to give more than I took, realizing that a lot went unnoticed. But I wasn't looking for recognition, but peace in my heart and the love I could share. With age comes tears, knowing you are getting closer to the path's end, and you are not ready to accept that, but also tears of joy and happiness because you lived your best life or tried to.

With age comes a feeling of fulfillment that you and you alone made happen, and it is time to reflect on your victories and failures.

My dream has always been to live out my days aboard a boat, returning to the many ports of call I sailed to, each holding memories like the smell of salt air and the gentle rocking of the boat anchored in a faraway place alone with my thoughts. It's like being rocked to sleep as a child without caring for anything but loving arms.

With age, we can lose thoughts that once were crystal clear and somehow were cast out, leaving a blank spot you'll never be able to fill again. But we smile more than we did in our younger days because we have more memories than most and are not ashamed to share them even to deaf ears.

With age comes age spots, sore joints, wrinkled skin, and slower walks in the park. There are also fewer phone calls from loved ones and final goodbyes to lifelong friends.

Most importantly, age is coming to all of us. Nobody escapes it, so my advice is to keep on going until you can't. Keep smiling, caring, and loving for as long as life allows. 

We of old age are not finished. We just take things a little slower to enjoy them more.

Mike 2025                                                    

Uncertain times

 I live in my father's footprints in many but not all steps. I remember him for the smiles we shared and the stolen moments between us that young boys need with their dads. 

I remember him teaching me little things that meant a lot at the time, but looking back, I see that it wasn't so much the moments as the time we shared that really meant something.

Time had its way, as it does, and hundreds of miles came between us. He lived his life and grew old while I lived mine, occasionally remembering a time or place we had together, causing me to pause and pick up the phone.

Now I'm old, and he's gone, and memories fade each day. I try to remember him before I forget that nothing is left but uncertain time. And lessons learned.

Mike 2025                                     

Will I see you?

 Will I see you when I'm gone? Will I feel the same way you do, alone and brokenhearted? Will I stay in spirit, give you comfort, and gently kiss away your tears? Will I softly hum your favorite song as your breathing slows and you fall asleep? Will you dream about me as I will dream of you for all eternity?

Will I feel your skin and taste your lips? Only in my final memories, I fear, as death is sometimes kind to let you relive your most treasured thoughts one last time before the rest are scattered to the wind.

Will I see you when I'm gone? Will you see me?

Mike 2025                                               

                      

My babies baby

 I watched from a bench as my youngest child held onto her own. The Carousel went round and round, each passing a wave and smile from me. The music, sounds, and smells of the small park were another reminder of years gone by too soon.

My baby's smile and her child's smile capture a perfect snapshot, which I will keep in my memory book to revisit one day, like so many others I hold dear. I remember her first trip to the beach, sitting in the sand with plastic buckets and tools, a kiddie pool in the backyard on hot summer days, and a miniature rake to help me with the autumn leaves.

I remember her first, everything as a father should, even when I couldn't be there. She was always in my mind and heart as I kissed her forehead, whispered, "I love you," and closed her door late into the night.

Looking at her now with her child, I see myself holding her tight as the Carousel went round and round, her smile capturing life at that moment when her heart took mine forever. Her first taste of cotton candy, holding my hand as she saw new things that made her smile and look up at me, her eyes doing the talking, telling me everything I needed to know.

As the day draws to a close, my baby girl holds onto my arm as I carry a sleeping grandchild to the car and leave the lights and sounds of the small park behind us. Until the next time.

Mike 2025                                          

Some call me OG

 Some call me OG or old guy; I take both as compliments.

I was raised by books and street smarts, taught by men and women who had to be rough around the edges to survive. My Mom taught me to be kind to others and to never let go of my faith, as it would carry me through troubled times. She taught me to try to understand my feelings and how to overcome those that brought me sorrow. Because of her, I knew what it was like to love and be loved and how to treat others as you would want to be treated.

My dad taught me how to throw a punch, take one, and never start a fight, but be the one who finishes it. He taught me it was all right for a man to cry and that it didn't make him any less of a warrior. He taught me to take pride in my work and never give up trying to be a better man. He taught me that family was the breath of life and my duty was to protect my own no matter what.

My life lessons were passed on to me by my elders and by me to my children, who I hope will keep them close to their hearts. I'm sure some will stick, while others will be forgotten, like the words of an old song. But if I did my job, my children would grow up with kindness and maybe a dash of warrior in the mix.

I look back at seventy-one years of age and realize I accomplished a lot. My kids fill me with pride in knowing they achieved their dreams, and although the journey had a few speed bumps, they put their heads down and horns out until they succeeded.

Being called OG means Old gangster or old guy, and that's just fine with me. It tells me I did okay and don't have to say "sorry," just "thank you for listening and learning some OG life lessons.

Mike  2025                                               

Questioning Eyes

 Today, I walked through the forest as light snow fell on frozen ground. As it fell much heavier, the footprints disappeared into the deep powder, giving me little hope of finding a deer on this day. 

I began my long walk back towards my cabin, stopping along the way to sit on a fallen tree and have a bite to eat. I felt my strength weakening from the difficult walking in the knee-high snow, so I unwrapped some cheese, a hunk of bread I baked yesterday, and a flask of wine.

As I sat eating, I couldn't help but notice I was being watched. I scanned the area around where I sat, but saw nothing except a squirrel raising its voice to the forest. The quiet always amazed me when the animals grew silent and listened to the wind running through the tall trees like a song sung, especially for them.

I finished my lunch and began packing away the leftovers when I saw her. A beautiful doe was just feet away from me, her eyes questioning but not fearful. Was she hungry? I asked myself. Slowly, I tossed some cheese toward her, but she stood her ground, never moving. I threw some bread, but she still didn't move. I reached deep into my backpack and found an apple that I think was in there for a while. I sliced it into small pieces and then tossed them in her direction.

Very slowly, she inched towards the apple slices, eating them while never taking her eyes off me.

To this day, I believe she grew not to fear me because I had no gun and, therefore, wasn't a threat to her. I left when she did, both going in different directions: her to find a place to bed down and me to my cabin to look at the pictures I took. The last few clicks of my camera were just random shots of the forest, but one stood out. It was the doe concealed in the trees watching me, and I couldn't help but notice she had no questioning eyes.

Mike 2025                                      

Through the eyes of a writer

 It has been a wild ride that has taken me places most can only imagine. Ten countries, each a place of its own, steeped in traditions and memories of which I was fortunate to be a part.

My youth was a happy time filled with the love of my parents, siblings, and others who inspired me to take the path I chose decades ago. I've been blessed with the ability to remember even the most minor details and bring them back to life in stories that need to be told.

To date, I've written three books and over eight hundred blog posts, each a story I wrote about people I've known over the years, mixed with a dose of fiction and imagination. I couldn't understand why, when I began writing, I couldn't stop and found myself banging away at the keys to see where it took me at that moment in time.

Some days, I sit at my desk and watch the silent keys, trying to get a mental picture of the day's blog and how I'll begin writing it. All I needed was a jump start brought on by a single thought, a memory, or a picture in my head that needed a place in the story.

Many of my blogs take place in different periods, from the 1940s  to the fifties and sixties and others. I find myself writing as if it were all happening today, and I was there in a gangster suit with a Tommy gun and a flapper girlfriend or a three-day outdoor concert—all so real as the visions leaped out of my mind onto the paper or, in my case, the screen.

It's hard to explain how my mind works when I write. It's not just the words I see but the entire landscape surrounding the story, like the way people were dressed or the cars they drove. I smell the scents of corner hotdog carts and diesel from large trucks, making my eyes water. I hear people talking about next week's dinner party. And did you pick up the dry cleaning? It's an entire moving picture show in my mind, and I am a part of that scene, at least for the moment.

This part of my story may be difficult to understand because I have difficulty doing so myself. Someone once said that everything you see, touch, smell, and feel is a story waiting to be written. When I write something, I get help from a distant source. Call me crazy, but I believe writers, poets, songwriters, and other influencers become a part of what I'm writing. It's called channeling, and I believe it to be true.

My question would have to be, why me? Have I been chosen out of millions of writers to write stories that only a few have ever read and will surface many decades from now, found in a trunk in an attic or storage shed in boxes damp with moisture? Will strangers pour through my work and be able to go back in time to places that could only be seen through my eyes?

My hope is that my family will read my stories and be able to pick out the pieces about my feelings towards them and the love I felt with every word written. I find myself thinking that my craft has lost its appeal to many, but I also want to believe our world still wants to curl up and listen to the stories of a dreamer who wrote with one purpose: to entertain through the eyes of a man who saw the world a little differently than most.

Mike 2025                                                   

Peace in the valley

 He returned to the valley where he spent the summers of his youth, mostly to relive them one last time. It was a beautiful place nestled between two mountains, as far North as you could go before the border.

It was 1969, and the world was changing. Protests became the norm, and rebellion against the establishment created a culture never before seen when young men were drafted and sent to a faraway place to fight for something many didn't believe in or even understand.

Back in the States and abroad, a new culture was brewing, with tens of thousands of young people letting their hair grow and succumbing to the temptations of weed and mind-altering drugs to escape the realities of a changing world. The flower children, hippies, and other labels like freaks and long hairs were given to those who wanted nothing more than to live in peace, play their music, and be left alone in places like this valley.

He looked into the valley from a hill, his mind traveling back to when hundreds of young people gathered there in early summer, staying until the leaves turned color. And sleeping on the ground was not an option.

Rows and rows of campsites circled the valley where, at any given time, the sounds of guitars, flutes, and smells of weed filled your senses.

But the most intense high was through mind-altering drugs like acid, mushrooms, and hash, which were used to enter a different place in your mind that usually ended well, except for a few occasions when paranoia set in, and coming down from the trip was not a good thing.

The valley was a place of beauty and peace. A place where you could catch fireflies at night in mason jars or sit at a stranger's camp offering some weed for some acid. There were no inhibitions at play, and if you wanted sex, you just asked for it from someone you found attractive and willing.

We weren't dirty hippies, as most thought. We bathed in mountain springs and often sat under a waterfall to stay cool in the summer heat. We sang songs, walked in the forest, and picked wild berries. We became one with nature and always left it looking better than when we found it.

Then, one August day, word spread that a giant outdoor concert was being held on farmland just a few miles from the valley. Old school buses and other forms of transportation were filled up and headed for the farm. Traffic was snarled for miles approaching the farm as people left their vehicles and walked on a dirt road, some for miles.

I'll never forget the size of the stage, which could be seen from a half-mile away. The speakers were as big as five washers stacked on top of each other. The prechecks were deafening. We got as close to the stage as possible, found a space, and sat down to wait. It was a couple of hours before the first band began to play. Carlos Santana played his heart out as throngs of fans danced and sang along, giving him the fuel to put on a great show. Thousands of people had found their way to the music, which I later learned could be heard miles away.

Joe Cocker, Jimmy Hendrix, Fleetwood Mac, the Who, Cat Stevens, Carly Simon, Janice Joplin, and more played throughout the night as clouds of weed filled the air and good and bad trips were seen everywhere you looked.

Then the rain came, and the once grassy fields became mud holes. The hard rain lasted for hours, creating what looked like a pig pen without pigs. The mood changed, and some gathered their stuff and headed back down the country road to the shelter of their cars and trucks. Others partied so as not to let some rain spoil the concert.

It was a memory I've carried with me for decades, a time in my life when  I tried new things and luckily made it through to talk about it today.'I still wear my hair long and occasionally wear a tie-dye shirt. I listen to rock and folk classics and keep them all protected in a safe place that someday my grandchildren will inherit and hopefully enjoy them as I did so long ago.

The era may be gone, but when I pass another long-haired person on the street, I flash the peace sign that's usually returned as I remember peace and love, the unforgettable time of my life in the valley, and a farmer's field of dreams.

Mike 2025                                                     

Growing older

 As we age, the simplest things bring a song to our hearts: the laughter of children at play, carefree days with nothing to do except smile at the beauty surrounding us, and timeless days and nights resting in our memory until called upon.

Time has more meaning as we age, so we should use it wisely and not miss a second. We see life differently after we accept that most of the good years are already lived, leaving us with hundreds of memories that 

we share with ourselves and others who played such an essential role in our earthly visit

Age is a blessing that some never see, but all hope to achieve. We get to hold newborn babies with our names and rock toddlers to sleep, covered with a blanket an elder made with loving hands.

Age is wisdom that older folks pass to future generations, hoping that something will stick and traditions will be carried on.

Old age slows you down and allows you to reflect on the good and the bad, all of which belong to you and you alone. Old people smile a lot because they have so many reasons to, but you will also see them sad, knowing the thousands of memories they've created are fading and will one day be forgotten.

Aging means hearts filled with love and an endless sense of fulfillment, which we will take with us when the candle burns out and our soul rises to a place well deserved.

Mike 2025                                        

Paper Boy

 The whiteout came out of nowhere as he struggled to move forward in the frigid afternoon. He was a paper boy, a job boys longed for, but few could say they succeeded. It was a time when the evening paper was read by thousands, mostly with stories of local happenings and worldwide news that people depended on every day. And it was he they depended on, no matter the weather conditions.

The summer months were the easiest as he could strap on his newspaper bag and ride his bike throughout his route, chucking papers onto lawns and driveways. He was always done in time for dinner, with plenty of daylight left to play with his friends. On Saturdays, he collected the weekly charge from all his customers, which was paid in coins that he put in what he called his clicker. There were slots for quarters, dimes, nickels, and pennies, and the clicker was clipped to his belt.

Most people paid on time and were given a small ticket of that week's color as a receipt. For those who didn't pay, the ticket was left in his ledger to be collected next week. This simple method worked perfectly. With seventy-five customers, he collected what he paid for the newspaper itself, and the leftover was his to keep, usually about ten dollars a week. Not too shabby for a twelve-year-old kid.

Autumn brought cooler temperatures and a light jacket as he increased his customer base by ten new subscribers, giving him a chance at winning the year with the most subscriptions. The prize was a brand-new bicycle larger than the one he'd had for years, but always faithful until it got stolen right out of his front yard. My dad reported it stolen, and within one day, it was recovered at a kid's house who had a record for similar thefts. I hoped I would get it back before my afternoon delivery, but no such luck, so I put the bag over my shoulder and began walking, or briskly walking, to complete the day. It was well after dinner, and darkness set in as I walked into the kitchen, dropped my bag, and ate the dinner Mom had kept warm for me.

Springtime meant rain and a lot of it. I wore a raincoat, hat, and rubber boots that always seemed to get wet no matter what I did. Once, I bent the fork of my bike as I rode through what I thought was a puddle, but it turned out to be a deep pothole, and I had to walk the rest of my route with my broken bike. Dad helped me straighten the fork, and I was ready to go the next day. A bit more about winter.

Winter was cruel and in control. I had to walk or beg my Mom or Dad for a ride, but those were few and far between. My dad believed the weather made me stronger, but he surprised me once in a while and took me in the warm car. Most days, I dressed like the Michelin tire guy, completely covered except for my eyes so I could see through the blizzards we often had. Some customers made me step inside to thaw out, even gave me a hot chocolate, and sent me on my way.

Overall, I enjoyed my days as a paperboy, even in the worst weather. It made me appreciate no matter what you do for a living, you never stop going forward, even against sixty MPH winds.

Mike 2025                                              

Night visions

 As a child, he would tell his parents about his dreams and the people in them. They passed it off for a while as cute stories until one morning, he came to the breakfast table looking like he hadn't slept much. "More dreams," his dad asked, sipping his coffee with a grin. The boy nodded and sat silently for what seemed a long time.

Tell me about your dream, sweetheart, his mom asked. There was a pause, and then he started. Grandpa came to visit me, he said. We talked and talked in my room about his youth and the adventures he had. I didn't like the smell of his cigar, but he said it was a part of who he was, and I'd get used to it. Tell me more, his mom said. Well, he walked funny, but I didn't say anything.

By now, the dad was looking at his son with great interest, as his son had never met his grandpa. He was a strict man who walked with a limp from an injury when he was very young. He also smoked cigars he had hand-rolled at a town tobacco store. Dad had lost all interest in the newspaper he was reading and asked his son what else they had talked about throughout the night.

The boy thought for a while and then softly told them they spoke of olden times when people were friendlier than they are today. Neighbors helped out whenever there was a need, and life was quieter than today. He told his grandson that he has hundreds of relatives in a faraway place and that someday, a long time from now, he will meet them, and they will welcome and teach him all they know. He said our talk last night was just a sample of what awaits you, Dad, Mom, and everybody we know.

Today, that boy is an old man with countless stories about his relatives, who visit him at night, not in dreams but in their likeness. They sit at the foot of his bed and tell stories, some centuries old, some yet to happen.

He couldn't explain why this had happened to him, and those who knew kept it quiet so people wouldn't think him nuts.

The old man passed in his sleep, his empty room smelling of cigars, not the ending but the beginning of a new story.

Mike 2025                                                

Looking back

 As he looked back on his life, he tried to remember when the colors became black and white, when the sounds of children's laughter were silenced with age, and when memories once so vivid were too far buried to remember.

Looking back, he admitted he was a good man and acknowledged that to be true somewhere along the line. He wasn't the perfect husband or father, and few could call him a friend, but he strived to be there no matter what, whenever he was needed, and in his book, that was important.

Looking back on a life filled with good and evil, he liked to think he did his best but knew there were times when the good angel wasn't strong enough to win. He accepted those moments, but through prayer, he knew he was forgiven.

Looking back on a life filled with ups and downs, he is at peace with his decisions, and his heart is whole. As he looks at his image in the mirror, he sees the age that crept on him with wrinkles, worry lines, and decades of staring at that image, hoping it would smile back.

Mike 2025