Acceptance

 There are no more questions, just acceptance and patience as the hourglass nears the end of its sand. A trillion galaxies will have a beginning and an end, with questions being answered that have eluded us for a lifetime.

As the darkness gives way to brilliant light, our soul proclaims victory, having survived the journey of a trillion stars, each a small piece of eternity, a guiding light force, a pathway to happiness we earned through suffering, pain, and even doubt.

Instantly, you realize the meaning of your time on earth was leading to your final journey, leaving behind all of your lives, each another chance to live up to the expectations of eternity. There is no death until it's proclaimed, and trumpets sound the start of your run to the finish line.

Words will never be enough to explain heaven, nor will it ever allow you to understand it in all its glory.

You become one more soul in an endless place of beauty, joy, and not a pinch of doubt, which you now leave behind with your final breath. I'll see you there one day, all the souls who left me in this and every life I lived. I will embrace you and remember you as I become one more star to be gazed upon by my children's children and more.

Mike 2025                                                         

Hard times

 Little dust tornadoes popped up as drought claimed the crops again this year. Farming was all we knew on land; my great-grandpa settled long ago. Daddy did everything he knew how to do, and seeing him feel so low made me want to cry. There were four mouths to feed, and Momma did her best with what we had, mostly potatoes and small game if Daddy or Junior got lucky and shot something.

We sold off everything we could, usually at the market in town, which every first Saturday became an auction. I knew it bothered Daddy to part ways with his Daddy's tools, but he said they were just objects, and selling them meant more food on the table. Momma parted with a quilt she made, with my sister Mary's help, and she cried, wrapping it in old newspapers, hoping it would go to a good family.

I had nothing to give besides who would want a pair of worn-out shoes or a toy gun Grampa carved for me on my tenth birthday. I helped Daddy load up the old truck, pouring in the last of the petrol he had saved for a rainy day, and today was that day. Momma had made four potato pies, and Daddy's final donation was four beautiful wooden chairs he had made with his Daddy that lay under a tarp in the workshop, only to be sold when all else failed.

The market was packed with trucks lined up and goods displayed as the better-off folks walked around, occasionally finding something they liked and insulting the seller with a ridiculous offer. Momma's pies always sold quickly, fetching two dollars apiece, but the beautiful quilt went unsold as it was worth ten times the offers she was getting.

Daddy saw a well-dressed couple standing by the four chairs, and he went to them, explaining that all the beautiful details were like something they'd never seen anywhere else. They offered forty dollars for the chairs, and Daddy had no choice but to accept.

We had forty-eight dollars, enough for food and seeds he would plant in the spring. I would get a newer pair of shoes, which Momma found for three dollars, but I hated getting them. I told Momma I'd rather go barefoot, but she bought them anyway.

Daddy walked down the street to the petrol station, filling the can with enough gas to get us home and a little leftover for the tractor. As he was headed back, he saw Momma running towards him with a smile on her face. She told him she had sold the quilt for forty-five dollars. We had made a small fortune that day, and Daddy took us to the bakery, telling us to pick out one thing. My choice was a jelly-filled donut, and Mary chose a cream-filled one. We savored every bite as Momma and Daddy went without knowing every dollar was needed.

We sang songs on the way back home, each of us happy but sad. Family heirlooms had gone to other homes, but I'd always feel great pride knowing my parents' sacrifices gave us a better life. "You can't eat a chair, can you?" Dad asked. And you can't use a quilt for kindling, Mom chimed in.

The following year, the crops flourished, and Daddy sold almost ninety percent of his crop to the mill for more money than ever before. The bad times were gone, replaced with plenty of food and full pantries. Daddy and I painted the house and the barn, and he taught me to make chairs like his Dad taught him. Momma continued teaching Mary how to quilt, and I put a tarp over the four chairs, never knowing when I might have to sell them. But not today and not tomorrow, because to me, they are a constant reminder of the sacrifices my parents endured to give us the best possible life they could provide.

Mike 2025                                                        

When the pen runs dry

 There will come a time when my pen will run dry, with no tears shed. The thousands of words that found their way into my mind and heart will live on somewhere in a cloud, only to be retrieved by curious minds. 

Will my work be known as mediocre, or will it stand out from others, as I planned it to? Did my stories touch those who read them in a special way, my way? Did my readers become a part of my words, even momentarily, when everything came alive as they found themselves deep into the story's meaning?

If I had to choose one reason I write stories, it would be because I can. It is truly a gift from God that I don't take for granted. When people comment on my words, they tell me it takes them back to their youth, when life was simple, and everything that mattered was treasured. Some thank me, while others say the emotions they felt when reading brought a smile, a tear, and a peaceful feeling they longed for in today's hectic world.

If I made one person happy with a story, then I've accomplished my goal. I'll keep writing until the pen runs dry and my mind and heart bid farewell, giving way to a new generation of writers who use AI and Google to find the words needed to create something cold with little emotion that didn't come from the heart or the streets. Just an edited splash of words that could never compare to stories told and stories kept.

Mike 2025                                                    

Four friends forever

 It was 1963, and to us, fun was everywhere we could find it. Four of us were aged from the youngest at ten, and two at eleven, with our leader at twelve. I suppose we were like sheep following him to places our parents told us to stay away from, like the steep river banks and the rocky quarry where we'd wait until everyone was gone home, and we'd walk our bikes up to the top of a giant hill and speed downward, screaming at the top of our lungs. Usually, our leader made it down the hill while the rest of us faced plant and picked out chunks of gravel from torn-up knees.

I won't say life was boring without video games or countless movies. We didn't know any better, but someday, not so far away, we would wonder how we lived without all that technology. But way back when, we devised our adventures, like making the entire block go dark by landing the perfect kick on the light pole to cause it to go out for a few minutes before coming back on. Sometimes, we all connected at once, and the entire block went dark. It was all just fun and games until we saw the lights of a police car coming our way.

Life was full of adventures, and we weren't too shy to try any of them. Like seeing who could walk out the farthest on a frozen pond. Little did we know that at least one of us who went first would fall through while he laughed and laughed as we hurried home to thaw out.

1963 became 1967, and our bikes were left in the garage as we rejoiced at our new friend, our leader, who got his driver's license and a hunk of a junk car that always seemed to run out of gas. We'd pool our change, ending up with enough to put another dollar in the tank and another few hours of cruising down the boulevard, looking for girls who looked away and giggled.

The four of us grew up and went our separate ways. A couple off to college, another off to war, and I tell stories about my youth and four special friends who kept me laughing.

Mike 2025                                               

Mothers Day forever

 I see your face often, Mom, and it never seems to age. It could be because I'm looking at your senior yearbook picture from when you were just a child growing up too fast. I have it on my fridge door, along with a collage of family photos, some yellowed by time. It's as if all those pictures tell a story that I try to relive each time I open the fridge door.

Time stands still with every photo taken, as does my heart when I see your face, that beautiful face I looked up to from my first breath and every breath thereafter.

You were always the one who truly knew me for who I was, encouraging me to fulfill my dreams and never stop reaching for the stars. I never did stop reaching Mom and my memories of your words made many dreams come true.

Time has eased my broken heart, but I'm often reminded of you when I hear the first songs of a robin or smell the Jasmine in bloom. I hear your laughter and feel your gentle touch, which comforted me when my young life was hurting.

I miss you and will always think of you whenever I open my fridge and see your beautiful smile.

Happy Mother's Day in Heaven

Mike 2025                                                      

The ride man

 On any given summer evening, the sound of the ride man coming down your street meant begging Mom for a quarter, only to be told to ask your father. As he fumbled in his pocket, your anticipation grew, wondering what ride it would be: the whip, the Ferris wheel, or your favorite, the bumper cars.

As the music grew closer, a small crowd gathered, and suddenly, the bright blue truck appeared. "What genius thought of this?" Dad would say. "Is it a darn gold mine?" Another dad chimed in. To my disappointment, it wasn't the bumper cars this time, but the whip was more than good enough.

The ride man opened the gate and collected your quarter until the whip was full, then closed the gate. Pulling on a lever, he started the ride as kids screamed with excitement with every twist of the whip. One good thing was that the ride man let you ride for a long time while he talked to the parents, especially the Moms.

As the sun began to set, he turned on the colored lights, which made the ride even more fun. But like most things, the ride ended, and the ride man waved goodbye until the next time he came down your street. Those special moments on any given summer evening have stayed with me all these years as I look down the street for the bright blue truck that I wish would be the bumper cars.

Mike 2025                                            

The tracks

 As a kid, I often found myself alone. My best friend had moved away, and the only other kids I knew were from school who lived a bus ride away from my house in the country. I didn't mind it so much; it was like I was the only kid on earth with too many adventures to recall.

One of my favorites was long walks on the railroad tracks, often from first light to sunset. I'd pack a couple of PBJs and a canteen slung over my shoulder, which was filled with Kool-Aid.

At the tender age of eleven, I took my longest walk, which I guessed to be about twenty miles. The tracks ran for hundreds of miles, cutting through farmlands and thousands of acres of forests. Every so often, they ran through a whistle-stop of a small town where I'd step off the tracks and pay a visit to old Mr. Lang, who ran a country store. He had a cooler outside where, for a quarter, you could get an ice-cold Coke or a push-up ice cream, and if he was in a good mood, he'd invite me to sit and tell me stories of his life. One hot afternoon, he told me the story of a hobo who passed through there twice a year, once in the Spring heading North and once in the fall heading South. A down-on-his-luck kind of guy, I said, but Mr Lang shook his head, saying No, he was one of the happiest fellows he had ever known.

I continued my walk, waiting to hear the far-off sound of a train whistle approaching at a high rate of speed. It told me it was the twelve o'clock freight train bound for the big city. I put my ear to the track, growing louder with every passing second. Then, as I'd done a hundred times, I got off the tracks and waited to see the mighty engine closing in on me. Smoke filled the air as the black monster was feet away, the noise deafening as I held my hands over my ears. Each car sped past until the caboose, which was the last thing I saw, disappeared, and all was silent again.

When the day came for me to graduate high school, I had only one plan: I would ride the train to the end of the line, a place I'd never seen in my longest walks on the tracks. I packed up some food and a canteen of Kool-Aid, then hid in the bushes until a slower freight train drew near. I saw an open door and ran to it, hoisting my bag into the box car and jumping on board.

Words can't explain the feeling of sitting on the floor with my legs dangling out of the car, watching the scenery change with every mile. Sometimes, other men would jump on board, meaning me no harm as they fell asleep on their way to someplace I'm sure I'd never been.

I spent two years riding the rails, seeing beautiful scenery, and meeting new friends. Somewhere along the line, I became a hobo who wanted nothing more than to see where the tracks led.

On my way back home, I visited old Mr. Lang. We sat on his porch eating ice cream push-ups, and he begged me to share my adventures, which I did. His smile got bigger with every story I told.

I went home and continued my schooling, landing a job on the railroad, working my way up the ladder, and becoming an engineer on the freight line that took me past Mr. Lang's country store, where I'd blow the whistle, knowing he was smiling maybe because he knew his dream became mine and dreams do come true.

Mike 2025                                                    

When life was for the young

 Long ago but never forgotten, children played on the tire swing like he did when life was for the young. Endless summer days were spent by the creek, cooling off in the cold water and swinging on a rope somebody put up when life was for the young. 

Lemonaid stands by the foot of the driveway, yelling at every passing car, but few pass by, and interest is lost. Saturday afternoons at the roller rink and sometimes the movie theater for a marathon of favorite cartoons when life was for the young.

Rainy days reading comic books, wishing you were Superman, Batman, or any superhero as you wrapped a sheet around yourself, trying with all your might to fly as Dad yelled from downstairs to quit bouncing on your bed when life was for the young.

Walkey-talkies for you and your best friend next door talking past bedtime hidden under the sheets with a flashlight that showed bat wings on the ceiling, a mail-order light you saved up for that seemed like forever to arrive.

The absolute joy of the holidays when everything was magical and colorful, and I never wanted it to end, but it did, and life moved forward. No more lemonade stands or Saturday cartoons. No more Batman flashlights and walkie-talkies, all replaced with hanging out with friends, hoping that Maryann would say yes to be your prom date when life was for the young.

Playing Army in the backyard with sticks for rifles was replaced with basic training in a place you'd never heard of, and rifles took the place of sticks. You were sent off to war where life as you knew it was thousands of miles away as real bullets flew in all directions, and you prayed like never before that it would end.

Decades passed, and time caught up with you. Good and bad memories became constant reminders of moments that made you who you were when life was for the young.

Mike 2025                                               

Broken hearts

 He sat on the edge of the bed they shared for sixty-three years. In his hands, he held their wedding picture, now yellowed with age but still expressing the love they shared on that day and thousands more to come. He glanced at her vanity and dust-covered bottles filled with perfumes. Most were still full except for her favorite, which He couldn't bear to throw away, fearing he would never smell her scent again. He ran his hands across the quilt she made, feeling her presence in every stitch as another tear fell, joining countless others spilled in this room.

It's been decades since her passing, and not a single day passes that he doesn't come into this room and sit on the edge of their bed. He doesn't sleep in there anymore because he knows sleep will never come, so he wanders the halls until his memories go to sleep, and he lies his head down on the couch they sat on together, talking, maybe watching some TV but always together.

There are no words to explain a broken heart unless you've experienced one. It's a great void with no end in sight—darkness that doesn't let in the light and the never-ending times you still hear her voice, feel her touch, and smell her favorite perfume. A broken heart will remain broken until you're joined in a place where you're young, and life has just begun.

Mike 2025