Emergence of spring

 Another almost-invisible speck of green poked through the remaining snow. She knelt beside it, wanting to touch it, but refrained as its delicate stalk danced in the gentle breeze. There were signs of spring everywhere she looked, in the trees, where once bare limbs shivered in the cold, now slowly warm themselves with hundreds of baby leaf blankets.

Her walk finds her at the river's edge, where the ice has melted for the most part, allowing the streams to flow with purpose as she cupped her hands and drank the ice-cold water. In the distance, a newborn bird screams its song for its mother, who's never too far away, gathering food to fill their empty stomachs.

She had walked a good distance from her home and knew it wouldn't be long before her mom called out to her to come inside for a warm bowl of soup. She had another look at the magic of spring that surrounded her house, wondering how many more tiny miracles would appear overnight as she slept.

The morning brought the color green everywhere she looked, as if the warmth had arrived overnight and taken the snow away for another year. Splashes of color from the tulip bulbs planted in the autumn burst into an artist's palette of reds, yellows, and white, rising from hidden places known only to her.

It was her special place, with sights she had longed for amid the endless cold of winter's fury. Her love for the outside, where animals ran free, and time was measured by hunger pains. Her vision of living in the forest was etched in her mind: chasing fireflies in mason jars and never forgetting her role as a caretaker of nature. It was her calling, and the forests listened to her every word.

Mike 2026                                                            

Witch of the woods

 I remember as a kid, the dusty dirt road beneath my feet as I kicked a can, sunlight shimmering through the thick afternoon air. I was on my way home from school the final day before summer vacation, my mind ablaze with dreams of endless, golden afternoons and the sweet freedom of long, hot summer days. Hopefully, none of my buddies would have to attend summer school, and we could all explore the woods and the river, where a cool dip was always welcome. The four of us parted ways at the four corners, each headed home except for me. I went inside the old country store my granddad built some fifty years ago, the squeaky screen door announcing my arrival. Granddad was getting along in years, and we all knew that when he passed on, the old store would be gone. It hadn't turned out a profit in a long time, but the family didn't have the heart to tell him as he perched on his stool reading a newspaper; he'd already read several times. Hey, boy, he would say here to help, are you? Yes, sir, I'd answer, grabbing a broom and sweeping the floor, and stocking the almost empty shelves with the same cans that have sat on those shelves long after the date of expiration. When I was done, he put a dime on the counter, never looking up from his newspaper, as I left with the squeaky door announcing my departure.

Summer meant hot days and warm nights, both of which we'd take advantage of camping out in the woods and swimming in the cool water of the river. We'd follow the train tracks and explore just far enough to make sure we got back to camp before the darkness set in and the woods became a scary place. We'd take turns telling ghost stories and legends as we sat around the campfire, roasting hot dogs on sticks. One such folklore was the story of the old witch who lived deep in the woods, who boiled kids in a huge black iron pot if she caught them snooping around her cottage. Last summer, we made a blood promise to sneak up to her windows and look inside, scared to death of what we'd find. Like most times when an important task had to be done, we would draw straws or sticks to see who got the glory this time around. I'll admit I felt a little sick when I drew the shorts. But a Pac was a Pac, and early the following morning, we began the search for the old cottage in the woods.

As we ventured deeper into the woods, the smell of something sweet filled the air. The smell we surmised was kids being cooked alive in a sticky mess. My heart was in my throat, my hands shaking as I left behind my buddies hiding next to a fallen tree, as I got on my belly and crept ever closer to the sickening sweet smell. Then I saw it, an old cottage covered with vines that almost blended into the woods itself, alone and untouched for who knew how long. Smoke rose from the chimney, and horrible thoughts were too much to bear. My buddies egged me on, so I continued closer until I reached the rickety steps of the porch, and as quietly as possible, I looked into a window, and there she was. Dressed all in black, her long white hair tied up with black ribbons. I gasped just loud enough to see her look intently out of the window as my face twitched with fear, and I took off running as fast as I could, racing past my buddies and screaming as loud as I could to run and not look back. I wasn't proud of myself, especially since I soiled my pants.

That evening, around the table, my mom sensed something was wrong with me and asked me questions about my day... I assured her everything was fine. Once dinner was over, my dad set out four pieces of golden foil on the table, each with a wrapper that read "Aunt Tilly's Chocolate." One for each of you, he smiled, unwrapping it and claiming it was the best chocolate he'd ever had. Where did you get this, my mom asked. Believe it or not, at grandad's store. I stopped in to check on him just as a woman in black, carrying a basket adorned with flowers, left the store. On the counter were twelve foil-wrapped pieces of candy, well, actually eleven, as granddad was making fast work of the other amazing piece of chocolate. Dad went on to say that her name is Aunt Tilly and that she'd been making chocolate for decades, alone in her cottage, doing what she loved best: bringing smiles to children and adults alike. Granddad said she was his first vendor when he opened his store, arriving with the squeaky screen door and leaving it creaking after she left. We kids, learned a lesson or two, but it took growing a little more to believe what we were told. We continued to recon the cottage and eventually got up the nerve to knock on her door, where she'd be waiting with four extra-large chocolate bars that we enjoyed on the walk back home. Time passed, and Aunt Tilly passed away doing what she loved best. As for me, I bought the rights to her recipes and mass-produced her chocolate bars, eventually becoming the king of chocolate.

Mike 2026                                          

Moments in time

 I remember, as a child, taking slow walks with my grandma to the end of the driveway, which seemed endless when I was just learning to walk. I clung to her thumb as she steadied my unsteady steps, her gentle voice guiding me toward the world ahead.

I remember being a child, and my own superhero, spending countless hours as the Lone Ranger, Superman, a crusty pirate, and the lion in The Wizard of Oz. My backyard, the stage; my imagination, the script.

There was no money for fancy costumes, but improvisation came in the form of old bed sheets, a broomstick, and a small trash lid that, when tied around my waist, served nicely for my body armor. Granddad showed me how to make a pirate hat using a paper bag that he folded in creases, then another one until it fit me perfectly.

I remember the Fourth of July challenge of climbing the big tree in our yard, which was a rite of passage for the older cousins. Their reward was watching the fireworks displays across the town and beyond from their perch high in the tree. I dreamed about the time it would be me inching up through the branches, each step a challenge mixed with an abnormal amount of fear.

I remember walking in the fields of corn, hearing my dad say, " Knee high by the fourth of July, and all is looking good. But it was his knee-high, not mine, as I struggled to keep up with him. Looking as far as the eye could see at the endless rows of corn, I was beginning to feel trapped, so he hoisted me upon his shoulders and slowly continued our quest.

I remember endless summer days playing baseball with the neighborhood kids on the town field that doubled for an ice rink in winter. We used worn-out berlap sacks stitched together and filled with sand as bases, and the biggest thrill of all was getting to wear a uniform. The woman held baked good sales and other crafts to raise the money for the uniforms, which made you feel like the real deal when you stepped off the bus at your first away game.

I remember going to mass at the most amazing church right in the middle of town. Walking through the heavy wooden doors that creaked whenever opened or closed and made a distinct thudd when fully closed. I was baptized there, received my first communion, and attended funerals too many to remember. It was the only time I saw my dad cry.

I remember the kindness of strangers who helped when help was needed. I remember the switchboard operator who knew your name and the fireman who blew the horn as they passed you by. I remember getting caught stealing a piece of bubble gum while shopping with my mom, who made me give it to the biggest policeman I'd ever seen.

I remember making popsicles in ice cube trays and Kool-Aid, and catching earthworms at night when the grass was damp. I go back in time, remembering everything that ever meant something to me, and I hold on tight to all of them as I walk down the driveway in my dreams, letting go of Grandma's thumb at the end and moving toward a life filled with cherished moments.

Mike 2026                                        

Last line untied

 When the wind stirs my hair, and the sea's scent soothes me, I'll know it's time to close my eyes.

And when the last rope has been untied, and the bow points west, I too will set with the sun.

Then, when the darkness falls, and the sea is illuminated by the green of Neptune's breath and the feel of a mermaid's kiss on my face, I'll know I've come home.

If a gust rocks my boat or a squall tips me into the sea, I won't flounder but surrender to its power as I slowly am guided to depths only ever known by those who went before me.

I hope it's a sailing ship that spots my boat adrift in a now calm sea as they search for me with no success. They line the deck and salute a brother of the sea who's gone home to a place all sailors wish to be when the last line is untied, and the bow points West.

Mike 2026                                                 

Love letters from the sea

 As the sun rises and the ship moves forward, I feel the ache of missing you on a cold winter day. I picture you wrapped in a blanket, gazing out the window, longing for the warmth of our shared daydreams.

I man the rail as salt spray wakes me. A pod of dolphins plays nearby. I close my eyes and see you brush your hair, wearing one of my sweaters, and pausing to breathe in my scent.

Life at sea is a lonely place where the sirens of the mermaids call out, beckoning you to Neptune's kingdom, a place where the giant turtles and spotted whales protect this underwater castle and its king.

You're suddenly awakened by the ship's bell announcing breakfast in the galley, and, briefly, you think of her having her breakfast of tea and biscuits at a table meant for two; a stack of letters remains sealed on my side of that table.

I'll be gone for 18 months, and I promised I'd write every day, and I did. Over 500 letters I penned and mailed, arriving at their destination, I called home and you. I close my eyes again, watching as you open one letter, reading it over and over, written with salty tears, and read with the same as her teardrops fell upon my own.

Life on a ship with secret destinations and delayed mail services sometimes backed up for weeks, even months, but eventually made it home to her, fifty or more on any given day. She marked each letter with a number from 1 to 500, using the postmarks to make sure she read them in order, then neatly piled them on the table for two, where she would open number 1 and read it over and over again, then place it in a box to be shared when you steamed back home on a cold winter's day.

I returned to port and was granted a two-week leave before heading back out to sea. I spotted her in the crowd and dropped my seabag on the deck, running to meet her halfway as our bodies collided in a warm embrace, our tears flowing like those of one more mermaid splashing me goodbye until the next time I ventured out to sea.

We never finished reading the rest of the letters that spoke of my love for her, the memories we've shared, and the deepest emotions we shared with the flesh. Now I leave again on a springtime day when flowers bloom, and robins sing. When one last time waking up next to each other, a stack of love letters from the sea on both sides of the table meant for two.

Mike 2026                                  

The little things

 It's the little things that bring the greatest joy in life: the sound of a baby's sigh as their eyes meet yours for the first time, or the sight of your child climbing a tree. Each step upward brings him closer, in his mind, to reaching the stars.

The smallest things offer pause, quiet moments, and a stillness that lasts a lifetime. Listen to raindrops on a tin roof, watch water spatter as children leap into puddles, their laughter endless and full of joy.

Watching the flicker of a candle's shadow and the joy of creating hand figures dancing on the wall. It's your dog, his head on your chest, syncing heartbeats as one.

It's staring out a window, watching the street below come alive with a game of stick ball, hopscotch, and marbles. It's the dropping of the sticks and marbles gathered up and put into pockets of worn jeans as the sound of the ice cream truck turns down your street, and that obnoxious song you've played in your mind long after the truck was gone.

Joy is captured in pictures hanging on the walls of homes where time is measured by years gone by, and love remains in every smiling face that looks back at you.

Joy is happiness stored within you and remains there until summoned to be felt and remembered again. Such a small word to carry so much meaning for so many pictures in your heart.

Mike 2026                                     

Rewind time

 In a world devoid of respect, I want to rewind time. I'll keep growing a salt-and-pepper beard and let my hair grow until I'm unrecognizable.

Whether on a boat sailing the oceans or in a cabin in the forest among creatures, I seek freedom and connection with nature. I pursue new tattoos as expressions of my journey and keep the memory of my Harley alive.

I'll give my eyes and ears a break from world news, which seems harder and harder to believe. Aren't they capable of showing you what they want you to believe with AI? Of course they are.

I'll close all social accounts and sites, leaving behind a very small footprint. Only a very limited number of people will have to find me. Some will call me unhinged, and I suppose there's truth in that. Being 72 years old has allowed me to feel and remember countless changes in this world. Watching as a simple life with faith in God and Country has become something forgotten in a history lesson, and the previous chapter has no dust.

I will meditate and pray for inner peace, something that tiptoed away from me but wants to return. I will sit by a river and watch the tall weeds sway to the music of the winds, and walk on a white-sand beach as the sun sets, with crashing waves as the only sound.

A cleanse of both mind and body, a float in a salt bath in the ocean, splashing me around where she pleases until I'm coated with salt like a fish waiting to be fried. Rinsed by the rain and dried by the sun, both body and mind free of yesterday's trials.

I choose neither left nor right, nor weak nor strong, just peace and quiet, walking or skipping somewhere, my written words are all I hear within the sounds of nature's heartbeat.

I will rewind in time if only in my dreams.

Mike 2026                               

First above ground pool

 As a boy on summer vacation, I got to sleep in a little, but not too much. It was usually the sounds of a Saturday morning that woke me. The roar of a distant lawnmower, cars being washed, the radio playing top hits, and sometimes my buddies throwing pebbles at my bedroom window. Come on, Mikey, they'd shout, get your but up, we got stuff to do today, remember? If we had our way, every day would come with something to do and stuff to see. But this particular Saturday was the day my uncle's toy store introduced its line of outdoor above-ground swimming pools in three sizes. They held a lottery of sorts to be one of 15 kids who could swim in all three pools. But just because they were my uncles, my chances were as good as any kid's. Turned out my luck wasn't with me that Saturday, but the next Saturday was, as the delivery truck from my uncle's store pulled up to my house, where my dad and a helper set up the first above-ground pool in our neighborhood. You've heard the expression 'watching ink dry, well, that's what we did as the garden hose slowly filled the pool, and wrinkles were flattened as the weight of the water smoothed the bottom. It was about noon when watching it slowly got boring, until we heard what turned out to be a buddy of my dad's, a fireman, pull up to our house and greet everyone. Thought maybe we could make a deal, he told my dad. I'll fill your pool in a matter of minutes in exchange for a swim. Deal, my dad said, and the fireman made good on his end and filled the pool to the top in fifteen minutes. I'll be back for that swim, he told my dad when the water warms up a little. With that, he was gone, the pool filter and ladder were in place, and we were told to go ahead and have fun. I don't remember whose screams were the loudest, mine or my buddy's, as we hit the icy-cold water that turned our lips purple and made our skin feel like a popsicle. But I can say this: we got out just as fast as we got in. We should have listened to the fireman.

As we got older, and the pool did too, it was decided that it wasn't cost-effective anymore, with numerous patches and always a pinhole leak everywhere you looked. We drained our memories onto the grass that flowed to the street and vanished, leaving us feeling a little sad. How many games of Marco-Polo? How many alone times with your girlfriend or late nights under the backyard lights? How many nieces and nephews were taught to swim, and how many backyard picnics were held while kids swam, with parents keeping a sharp lookout?  As the decades passed and the backyard pool was just a memory, I sometimes drive by the old house and the garden where the pool once stood, and I can hear those words, "Marco-Polo," and slowly drive away.

Mike 2026                                                     

The tavern

 His tavern was wedged between two other buildings overlooking the Erie Canal. Like many stores and bars, it had an apartment upstairs. Sometimes the owner lived there. Sometimes it was rented. Most renters believed the noise from the bar below would not bother them. In most cases, it did.

The tavern, as he liked saying, was as close to an old west tavern as you could get, except there was no place to tie up your horse. The inside was built with dark oak, and the bar rail was brass. There was even a spitoon close to the bar, but it was mostly missed by patrons with a lousy aim.

It was 1969 now, and 1939 when he first opened for business. His wife helped out tending bar, in the beginning, as the men would much rather see a pretty face than his ugly mug. It was a typical neighborhood tavern, with some memorable characters who walked in when their shifts at the box factory ended. And much like the television sitcom Cheers, when a regular walked in, the entire place would greet him by name.

When the war started, and thousands of men enlisted in 1939, the box factory converted to making ammunition boxes. The women worked in the factories, and the tavern became a gathering place to share stories from their men overseas. Every Saturday, he hired a piano man, and every man who couldn't serve, usually because of age or a medical issue, danced to the music with the ammo girls, as they were known.

For seven long years, he tried to keep the doors open, but with the men gone, paying the bills proved almost impossible, so he began serving a fish fry dinner on Fridays. When the word got out, people from several neighborhoods came to try out what everyone said was the best fish fry anywhere. There was a long line to get in, and the kitchen couldn't keep up with the demand. But they made it happen every Friday, long after the war was over and the men came home.

For the next twenty-some years, he continued the Saturday dance and the Friday fish frys, now a legend around the surrounding neighborhoods. A lot of the old timers still came through the doors and were greeted by the others as always, but times were changing: fancy nightclubs opened with flashing lights and live bands, and the cover charge to get in paid for the overhead, with every drink sold pure profit.

In 1970, he announced he would close the tavern and sell the building. On the last night, the place was full of many familiar faces, some in wheelchairs, others needing assistance, as they bellied up to the bar one last time. His granddaughter showed up with a carfull of friends, as did other younger people who had heard about the legendary tavern and wanted to see it before it was gone. Little did he know that one new face in the crowd had an idea of buying the place and turning it into a replica of a 1939 tavern. But with upgrades to bring it into this century.

It turned out he did sell the tavern, and for a huge amount of money that would be used to build a little place on the lake. They were happy there, but they missed the old tavern and the people who passed through the door. So they decided to attend the Friday fish fry. When they entered the door, a chorus of greetings filled them with pride, and a few tears quickly wiped away as they greeted old friends and a new breed of much younger customers. His wife nudged him, pointing to a large portrait hanging behind the bar of him and his wife with the date they were the owners.

As for the tavern itself, it still smelled like fish and cigarettes, and that spittoon was still at the end of the bar but was very rarely used. The beautiful oak woodwork looked like it did when he and some friends built the place back in 39. The old wooden barstools remained, but with cushions. Behind the bar were neon lights, and a stage was set up for live music. He and his bride of fifty-some years danced to the song " I'll Be Seeing You, " bringing back a time when nobody knew what tomorrow would bring.

That would be the last time he visited his tavern as he and his wife returned to their lake house, where he passed away peacefully in his sleep at 90 years of age, with the first flyer advertising the Friday fish fry on his lap. His beloved wife followed close behind, passing just six months later. It was 1990 something, and the old building was torn down, along with others, to make way for a shopping mall. I drive past the mall on occasion, remembering the crowds waiting in line for the fishfrys and the ammunition girls awaiting news from the front lines. I hear the greetings calling out the names of people coming in, and if I think hard enough, I see him laughing with customers, a bar towel hanging from his shoulder to wipe down the bar with every drink he serves.

The dark woodwork and brass rail gone, the smell of cigarettes and stale beer just a memory. Time moves ahead, and if we're not careful, precious memories will disappear like the old tavern meeting the wrecking ball.

Mike 2026                                          

The valley

 Fifty years had passed since he last visited the valley. He pictured himself here, overlooking a meadow of wildflowers where people played frisbee. Music washed through the trees, and the smell of pot tangled with campfire smoke in a hazy cloud stretching across the scene.

It was a peaceful place filled with people from all walks of life camping out for a week, a month, or the entire summer into fall. He had arrived on the trip east and sadly admitted this was its final journey in his van—a well-worn vehicle that demanded constant attention. But it provided him with shelter as the rain fell, sinking deeper into the mud and its final resting place.

He walked the path that led to the meadow, a slow journey for him now that age was catching up at a rapid pace. He got through tangles of vines and overgrowth, eventually seeing something in the distance. A faded shade of blue, interred in weeds and left to be forgotten. It was his van.

He reached out and touched it, as one might an old dog, softly and with deep feeling. The inside was strewn with old beer cans and assorted things like a threadbare blanket covered with moss and a pair of cutoff jeans he remembered as being the only thing he wore back then. They had almost turned to faded blue ashes like everything does in forgotten decades.

He had seen enough and slowly made his way back to the trailhead where his grandson waited. Seen enough pops, he asked. He thought about his question for a minute, then turned to him and said he had seen his past in all its glory. He saw old friends and bonfires, fireflies in mason jars, and listened to a hundred guitars. He tasted the strawberry wine and spat out seeds from a joint. His mind was open again as countless memories came alive one last time." Let's go home his grandson said, to which he replied I am home.

Mike 2026                                                  

Going fishing

 He got up most mornings, making sure he was awake and wondering if there was anything more important to do than go fishing. He stretched, moved slowly to the kitchen, and brewed a pot of coffee: one cup for now, the rest into his thermos. He got dressed and looked into their bedroom, where his bride of fifty years slept, well, making it look like she was sleeping, but she wasn't. She used to rise with him, offering breakfast, but he said no, so she quit offering so often. But there was always a paper bag with two sandwiches and an apple that he grabbed on his way out, smiling.

The lake was just a few hundred yards from the house, and a shed where he kept both fishing gear and some tools and other assorted things he had accumulated over the years. He grabbed what he needed and made his way to the small boat tied up to the dock. There hadn't been any rain overnight, so the boat only held the normal amount of water, as all wooden boats do. He bailed out the boat, loaded his gear, untied the boat, and headed out to his favorite spot. He didn't have a motor on the boat; he said it just scared the fish away, and besides, rowing was good for his health.

Arriving at his spot, he baited a hook with a night crawler he found last night by wetting the grass, then shone a flashlight on the ground, and the worms would surface, and he'd grab one, adding to the dozen or so others in the tin can. For him, it wasn't just the fishing but everything and nothing surrounding him. The splash of a fish jumping, taunting him to catch it, the lapping of water against the hull, and the feel of the warm air blowing against his face, it just didn't get any better than that.

After a half a day on the lake, he'd sometimes come home with a stringer of fish he'd cleaned at the shed, taking the fillets to the house, where later they'd be grilled outdoors and accompanied with one of his bride's many unforgettable sides. Come sunset, they'd sit on the front porch swing, slowly watching as the ball of fire above sank into the trees as darkness fell on their little piece of heaven. So what are your plans for tomorrow she would ask him. He just smiled, took her hand, and told her that tomorrow was her day to do whatever she wanted. " Let's go fishing she said.

Mike 2026                                            

Fathers hands

 It was his hands that made him feel old—once hard as steel, now a road map of wrinkles, etched with the story of a man who knew hard labor. As he remembered his father's hands, he hoped one day his son would notice his own.

In his younger days, his hands gripped axes, shovels, and hammers tightly. He used his hands to build his house with countless blisters and wood slivers that he never complained about. His hands held his children and his wife, who felt safe with him, and they sometimes slapped the table to get their attention.

His hands were tough and hardened, but his heart was soft as a cloud. He taught his children kindness and respect for their elders. He held onto their hands, walking down a country road, squeezing them just a little to let them know he'd never let go.

His hands, once young and now old, carved out a lifetime of memories with every swing of the axe or pounding of a nail. As he looks at them now, he wonders if every line was a single path he took, and if so, he'd traveled many miles as a hard-working man.

Once, blisters and callouses, now transparent skin with bulging veins and age spots are what he sees as he realizes time has taken his hands first.What's next, he wondered, but didn't really care.When his hands quit working, everything else would soon follow.

It was his hands that gave him purpose, knowing they could do anything he asked. They were an extension of his brain, like puppets he controlled that never let him down. I believe our hands define us, separating the hands of steel from the strokers of a keypad. The brick layer from the accountant, the heavy equipment operators from the salesman. Hands are the true test of time, and his have  still retained the ability to beat his grandson at a game of thumb war.

Mike 2026                                               

Gifts of aging

 The gift of old age sometimes comes with sorrow and, at other times, with great joy. Like looking at your newborn for the first time, wrapped in the arms of the woman you love, and knowing from that moment on, your lives have been forever changed. Milestones play over in your head like first words and first steps, the first lost tooth, and the belief in the tooth fairy. Sitting on Santa's knee, your voice trembling, but you manage to read him your list. And being terrified of the easter bunny at the egg hunt, so Uncle Bob took off the head to show you everything was alright.

Sometimes life is full of sorrows, like when we lose loved ones we were so close to, and friends, some lost to war, and others victims of the streets, lost to us, replaced with a needle. We find ourselves wondering whether, had we been a better friend, the outcome would have been any different. The gift of old age is that people don't get offended when we speak our minds about a variety of life choices they just believe were slowly losing our minds and smile at us as if we were bound for the loony bin.

Growing up in a time or times when simple was just that, and households lived with a few rules to keep the train on the tracks. Talking back to an elder was a guaranteed whipping, not soon forgotten, as was the taste of soap that filled your mouth because you thought swearing or taking God's name in vain was okay because you heard dad do it every time he hit a fingernail with a hammer or stubbed his toe on the end table as he was searching for a midnight snack.

Growing old but remembering your youth is an equal mix of emotions, memories, and tears, sometimes joyful and other times so sorrowful that tears can't fall fast enough. But the best part of getting old is that roles are reversed, and that beautiful little baby you held in your arms now dotes on you, doing your laundry and making Tupperware dishes with food I can freeze enough for a week. She always has a cup of tea, staring into your cloudy eyes and holding your age spot hands, choking back a tear.

You assure her you're going to a place where her mother waits, along with dozens of family and friends, for his arrival. He tells her he's not afraid, and that her tears should be those of joy and happiness for him, as he's set free from the memories and will live his next life with a clear mind and a heart that can never be broken again.

Mike 2026                                             

Last dance

 Years pass before him as he faces the journey ahead. Birds sing outside his window—an angelic melody, a gift. Lying on his side of the bed, as he had for decades, is both comforting and painful. He kisses the air goodnight, as he did for years. Clutching her pillow, he fears the day her scent will vanish, wishing it would stay forever.

At his age, a multitude of memories have been lost, but his memories of them together are never too difficult to summon. They dance to their favorite songs, holding each other close, but a passerby sees only an old man dancing alone. He kisses her ruby-red lips and feels the softness of her skin against his, as a neighbor, through the window, sees the crazy old man kissing the air.

He passed quietly in his sleep, lying on his side of the bed, listening to the angelic songs of the birds, kissing her ruby-red lips, a smile on his face as he breathed in her scent and looked out the window as people watched their last dance.

Mike 2026                                              

Book of the sea

 The storm had passed, dark clouds now bright as he stood on deck, a coffee in hand and memories of yesterday when the sea showed her wrath upon them. Two hundred feet of steel was no match for the forces of the ocean, with waves the size of a six-story building, relentlessly slamming the ship, listing over forty degrees to port and then starboard, a carnival ride on open waters that made even the saltiest of sailors found hard to ignore. Inside, the cleanup continued as birthing areas were mopped clean of vomit, and the gally reopened after being closed for 2.5 days.

It was a costly storm in the millions, I believe. When a ship lists too far and the thought of capsizing becomes real, the forward gun mount, which weighed over five tons, would slide into the sea, thus upsetting the ship. The same held true for the captain's gig that weighed a couple of tons. The pounding sea wiped the ship's number off the hull, and the decks were covered with layers of salt still being cleaned with pressure hoses.

It was a scary time onboard the mighty war machine, which bowed down to nature's fury, praying it would end. We limped back to port, and once tied up, we saw the extent of the damage that had taken us back a few days when the sea challenged us, and we won. Shaky legs and queasy stomachs would pass, but the fear of becoming a guest of King Neptune would stay with us for quite some time.

A week in port to get everything shipshape and back out again, and the forecast is calling for calm seas. It's a sailor's life that most would never change. The exotic ports of call include Italy, Spain, Greece, and France. The Rock of Gibraltar and the Suez Canal, to name a few.

I'll always be a sailor even on dry ground, where my loyalty is to my shipmates, and my respect for the captain and his officers is beyond approach. We sail the seas always, the protectors, and are always willing to help where we can. But clearly note, we are a war machine, and you'll never escape us in our hunt for freedom.

It was 1972 when I was assigned to a destroyer. I was 18 years old and as green as green can be. I was headed out to sea for the first time in my life, a stark difference from puttering around on my dad's small boat to slicing through the swells of an upset ocean. My body was bruised everywhere from being tossed around like a rag doll as nature threw everything she had at us. I couldnt eat anything that would stay down, and the only safe place to be was strapped down to your bunk and ride it out. I encountered several storms at sea, and each one put the fear of god into me. But my sea legs grew stronger, my appetite better, and the excitement more profound.

Decades passed, and I can close my eyes, standing on the beach, seeing that mighty warship head out to sea. Young boys who became men overnight and old salts who had another chapter added to their book of the sea.

Mike 2026                                       

The wrath of war

 It was 1939-1945, a time for war and peace. Wanna-be soldiers by the thousands, lined up at recruiting stations, many who had never touched a razor to their boyish faces. Wives, mothers, and sisters joined the war effort by working tirelessly in the factories that once made dresses and suits and now turned out thousands of uniforms for all branches of the military. These dedicated women did the jobs their men once did, becoming experts at welding and riveting, went home to empty houses and apartments to try to sleep, then went back to do it all over again.

Mere boys went to basic training, a six-week course in killing that hardly prepared them to face the wrath of battle. The days before landing on foreign soil, they wrote letters home, a picture of their sweethearts tucked into the liner of their helmets, remembering how hard it was to say goodbye as they hung out the windows of trains, hands outstretched for one final goodbye.

Months passed, and those soldiers grew up on the battlefields where bombs burst, and constant shooting took something from them theyd neverget back. Care packages from home that usually took a couple of months to find them were moments of joy, ignoring the battle around them for just a few minutes as they opened a tin of now stale cookies from mom and a carton of Lucky Strikes from dad, who jokingly wrote he knew I was smoking a few years ago. Tired and dirty, they'd find a quiet place and read the letters from girlfriends, mostly professing their love and counting the days until you came home. Other letters said goodbye and that theyd fallen in love with someone else. Tears were quickly wiped away, and a new feeling of pain became buried inside.

When the war ended in 1945, thousands of fighting men came home, greeted by those left behind so long ago. They were changed men, now some with life-altering wounds, lost limbs, and mentally drained to the point of tears when they ran into their moms' and wives' arms, feeling safe once again. Some met their children for the first time, falling to their knees, grateful they made it home at all.

Uniforms were replaced with trousers and shirts as the men went back to the factories, and the women stayed home to raise their children, many in government housing, until the GI bill came around, allowing hundreds of discharged soldiers to buy a house in neighborhoods where every house was built the same on quiet streets. But the quiet was sometimes shattered by screaming coming from an open window, a reminder of the horrors of war.

It was a time of the big bands, and dance halls were filled on a Saturday night. Women once again looked like women with form-fitting dresses and nylon stockings. Men in suits and ties danced the night away, often meeting up with someone from their regiment, leaving the women to talk among themselves as the men took sips from the flasks they all seemed to carry in an inside pocket.

The years after the war brought prosperity for many, but also brought the war back home for some who couldn't adjust back to civilian life. They left their homes and families, finding themselves alone with their nightmares roaming the streets, begging for some change to buy another bottle. Five years later, we were at war with Korea, and many of those lost and forgotten soldiers returned to the battlefields, most in their twenties but all much older, and ready to fight again.

In 1953, peace came along. The troops returned home to the joy of families, some with unseen injuries buried deep inside. For many, joining the reserves meant being a soldier for a couple of weeks every year, a time to meet up with old war buddies who seemed at ease talking about the things they had spared their families from hearing.

Years passed, and that generation of fighting men faded away, allowing the young soldiers their place on the battlefields. For some, they found refuge and friendships sitting at a VFW post, drinking and swapping stories about the old days, knowing they should be at home with their families, but realizing they had all moved out a while ago, leaving him with nothing but loneliness and nightmares.

I see the old soldiers at parades wearing their uniforms, some that fit while others couldn't be buttoned. They stood for the flag and snapped two with a salute and a tear or two. Soon theyd all be gone, leaving behind a thousand grave markers telling a short story of bravery and commendations they once wore proudly.

It seems there will always be another battlefield somewhere in the world, and young boys will line up with their unshaven faces and a commitment to serve their country. Parents will cry, and girlfriends will swear they will wait.

Mike 2026                                                       

Slow but moving

 It now takes him longer to do things that once came easily. He no longer ran or lifted much. He tried to eat what his daughter recommended, but he didn't. Who would trade a greasy cheeseburger for a salad? Not him. He once lay on the grass to watch the stars, but, since getting up was harder, he brought his old recliner outside and lay back, often falling asleep until sunrise, when the roosters crowed.

He could still remember most things, and when he couldn't, he chalked it up to having a full mind that couldn't hold any more. It seems everything slowed down for him one day, and he never saw it coming, but he went along with it for the most part. Reading a story to a grandchild whose smiles and giggles filled him with inner peace, or holding a small hand and walking to no place special, were a few of the things where age didn't matter.

Life has slowed him down, but hasn't stopped him. He now has the luxury of rocking on the front porch swing for hours if that pleases him. He can walk in the rain and bask in the sun if he's so inclined. He's even been known to grill a cheeseburger on his outdoor grill, sprinkling it with drops of beer as he spoke to his daughter on the phone and silently laughing.

In his heart, he believes time slows us down for a reason, but that slowness allows us to take the time we need to reflect on our lives and all the amazing moments given to us.

Mike 2026                                       

I do remember

 Remember when your only cares were dinner and the weather? As a kid, you watched your siblings do chores while you watched Mighty Mouse on the black-and-white television, walking home from school, inhaling aromas from nearby kitchens. Your house fitting right in. Walking up the driveway, you smelled freshly baked bread—your mom’s perfect timing. She always had a slice of warm bread and butter ready, sometimes a jelly-filled treat made from leftover dough that you still taste today.

Remember building soapbox derby cars with Dad, something you eagerly awaited? Even if your wheel fell off halfway down the hill, you cherished the rare time together. I remember seeing him as my hero, the man who served his country, and how proud I was seeing him in uniform with the medals pinned to his shirt. I look back and realize he was only in his Twenties back then, and so was I when I served my country.

Remember when Mom and Dad had a date night, and my sisters and I went to Grandma's house, where cookies were baked, and games were played. We spent the night camped out in homemade tents in the living room and woke to the smell of pancakes coming from the kitchen. Sleepy eyes in pajamas, watching her squeeze oranges into a glass picture that my sister still has today.

I remember many yesterdays and the happiness of being a kid, dreaming of becoming a superhero who, with his plastic sword, would rid the world of villains. I remember Sunday drives, singing songs as the summer winds blew in your face, stuck outside the car window, your cheeks flapping to the delight of your sisters. Stopping alongside the road for a picnic, and if Dad had a couple of bucks, a stop for ice cream.

Remember when you blinked, and the child in you went away, leaving behind memories you cherish to this day and the blessing of being able to remember them. Life is short, and before you know it, those wrinkles come with age, not flapping in the summer breeze. You look back with wonder that you survived this long, recalling the trouble that sometimes found you. And yes, you have a few regrets, as the good outweighed the not-so-good, and if you had it to do over, you probably would.

I live for my memories, some as clear as a country stream and others daring me to remember them in bits and pieces. I smile when a new one introduces itself, and I remember.

Mike 2026                                         

Our Elders

 I believe our elders smile as they remember cherished friends and family who have passed. For them, time fades. Memories drift like a spring breeze. Their eyes glisten—not with sadness, but with deep, radiant joy as they feel close to loved ones.

They sit quietly, viewing the world as one who once knew profound happiness and love—memories they now summon again to fill the pain of loneliness. A visit from a grandchild is not easily remembered until they share a memory or two that seems to open their mind and bring a smile, reminding them that love can still return, even in quiet moments, but leaves just as quickly as it returns to shades of gray once filled with a lifetime of light.

Old age may take away things, but maybe those memories were meant to be forgotten to make room for the happy times you never want to forget. I think they see the faces of those most important to them, their mouths quivering as they speak their names and hear their voices with clarity meant for them to hear.

I've always believed that our elders are the history books we learn from, the tattered pages of the Bible we try to follow along with, and the countless stories we discover that reveal their lives and how they lived them. And mostly, I believe that old age is just a tired body and a full mind that sees us as a class of students with a thirst for knowledge.

Mike 2026                                                                                                               

1000 and more stories

 Some of my readers ask me if what I write is truth or fiction. Both are true. Many of my stories reflect on times in my life that I recall, and I take those memories and develop them into what I hope becomes a good story. Also, I was asked if the characters in a story are real or just imaginary, and both are true. We've all known people who left a lasting impression on us, and I'm no exception. So I try to include as many of those people in my stories as I can. Another question I've been asked is, Do I use AI to write? I use a grammar site that corrects my punctuation and terrible spelling, but that's all. Over the years, I've somehow managed to write over 1000 stories, and it's a good thing they are very short, or a book would require a forklift to handle the weight. I don't know how many stories are still rambling around in my head, trying to get out, but I'll keep trying to come up with more as I try to reach the 2000 mark. Thank you to all who have read almost all of them, and to those who have just started working their way through the 1000. Please give me a like or two or more for each story you've read. Thanks in advance.

mikeoconnorauthor.blogspot.com                       

Age is but a number

 Memories fade, and new ones are made. What was once so far away is now staring us in the face as we realize life doesn't stand still. Time was once on our side, but we now find it slipping through our fingers like the sand in an hourglass; we can't slow down. With vanishing clarity, we relive precious memories, hoping to remember them all, but, like a fading sunset, we sometimes get only a glimpse of our yesterdays as some memories bid us farewell.

Age is a numbers game we play, beginning with one and ending when the time we were given runs out like the sand in that hourglass. We have to live life to the fullest, no matter our age, as it's just a number, not a death sentence.

We may have to challenge ourselves to go dancing at 80 years old or learn to play that guitar sitting in a corner covered with dust. We have to rise every morning thankful for the chance to play with our grandkids or have a cup of coffee with our grown kids, asking them to help us remember their childhoods, which sometimes come back to us through a story they tell, obviously bringing them joy and happiness and endless smiles from me.

We've been blessed to have had all these years to witness the hundreds, maybe thousands of inventions people before us sometimes saw as the devil's work, but time went on, and the realization of a changed tomorrow was going to take place with or without us.

Now the younger generations, with their tech and savvy, have traveled into the twilight zone, knowing how to do this or fix that as long as there was a smartphone, tablet, or desktop computer to guide and challenge. My grandsons laugh every time I ask them about some Google thing or TikTok, and without hesitation, they show me the basics because that's all I want: the basics. A byproduct of my upbringing. No wonder some call us the forgotten generation. But why in the world do I need four remotes for my television? Some things just don't compute.

To make matters even more interesting, my six-year-old granddaughter sees me messing with my phone and quietly sits beside me, whispering, " Don't worry, Poppi, I'll show you how to do that. AND SHE DOES!

Mike 2026

                                                                   

One wish

 If I had one wish, it would be to walk on the beach with you, your hand in mine. Your laughter would fill my heart as we visited your favorite places and heard your favorite songs. I would lie with you in a meadow, dragonflies circling above, the breeze carrying your favorite perfume.

If I had one wish, your face would always be before me, smiling and giving me the strength to go on without you. I'd sit beside you on the porch swing, gently rocking as the sun set and the night's stillness brought back cherished memories.

If I had one wish, I'd wish for more than a single day, a single moment, or countless memories. I'd wish for a thousand more sunsets and shooting stars as we held hands that never pulled away.

Mike 2026                                                  

Springtime wonders

 I would stay all day in the woods when Spring came around, watching life come back from a winter's sleep, a bag of food—mostly scraps—which I'd place close enough to me, but far enough away so as not to scare the smallest of the woodland creatures. Time would pass. A squirrel would cautiously approach a piece of cheese, hold it with its little hands, and smell it first. Then—after a moment—he would sit on his hind legs and enjoy the treat. He must have been the captain, as he signaled his small army to join him. They constantly watched me sitting on a fallen tree as quietly as a mouse, maybe not losing the fear but realizing I meant them no harm. Shortly, a rabbit arrived and found some lettuce, which he ate as if he hadn't eaten in a long while. I maintained my silence and movements as other animals joined the picnic, feasting on gifts from the lone figure a short distance away.

The scraps were gone, and the animals disappeared back into the woods, some stopping long enough to turn to me as if giving thanks, as I bid them farewell until the next time. I returned to listening to and watching the sounds of springtime woods, from bubbling brooks to the cries of birth as the first babies of the woods were born. I breathed the air that smelled like moss and a musty scent that people would bottle, duplicating but never really getting it just right.

The woods are a large part of who I am, with all its splendor and wonder that I never grow tired of. It's a slow introduction to Summer when the woods are in full bloom, and the temperatures climb, choking out the cool breezes that once danced to the tune of a now-passing spring. The bulbs planted in the fall bloom into colorful tulips wrapped in wildflowers and given to your sweetheart. Peaceful times when fishing in the stream, not caring whether you catch anything or not, because your heart is at peace in the silence of the moment, and Mother Nature welcomes you to a part of her, now very much a part of you.

Mike 2026                                                   

The greatest show on earth

 The year was 1936, and the circus was coming to town. Giant posters were pasted on store fronts listing the date so folks could plan their day. The small town was alive with anticipation, and on the morning of its arrival, kids of all ages milled around, waiting to hear the whistle telling everyone the circus train was coming. Boys to men would line up at the stop to apply for laborer positions to help raise the giant tents and receive a couple of dollars. My dad was 10 years old at the time and, like most in that small town, faced many hardships, so making even a small amount of money would help his family buy food. He was big for his age and strong, a perfect candidate for the grunt work. The circus boss made his way down the long line of those seeking the few positions. He stopped in front of my Dad and asked how old he was. He told them he was 16 and was hired. The work was hard, but he never complained even though his hands were blistered and every bone in his body ached. When the tents were up, the boss man brought them all a sandwich, the only food they'd had all day. Dad told me it was the best meal he'd ever had, except for his mom's attempt to make something out of nothing.

It cost 25 cents to see the circus, so he purchased three tickets for himself and his folks, which his mom didn't like, as 75 cents was money they didn't have to waste on the circus, but it was his hard work that earned him that money, so she agreed they would all go to that evening's performance. A good-sized crowd waited for the tents to open and welcome folks inside, where theyd see the most amazing feats of wonder and breathtaking stunts performed right before their eyes. Once inside and seated, the ring announcer, dressed in a colorful costume and a megaphone, so people could hear him, told the crowd their lives would forever be changed after seeing the greatest show on earth.

There were beautiful girls on horseback and trapeze artists swinging high above the crowd, each slip eliciting screams, while clowns made balloon animals and handed them out to the youngest. Dad said he didn't know where to look next. There was a lion tamer and three lions who did tricks at the tamer's commands, roaring so loudly it scared even the most manly of men. At the end of their performance, the elephants were tied up outside, where, if you were lucky, you'd find some uneaten peanuts on the ground and offer them to the hungry giants. But his favorite was the performer known as the Rocket Man. He'd slide down into a cannon, and with much anticipation, a fuse would be lit, and the rocket man would fly out of the cannon to a waiting net way across the tent to the other side. Dad said the colors and costumes, the bravery, and the perfectly executed stunts were something he'd never forget. Then there were the side shows that surrounded the big tents, barkers shouting to the crowds to step right up and see the 700-pound man and another with a two-headed snake. There was a man who swallowed a sword, and another who blew fire out of his mouth. Conjoined twins and the lady with a full beard. There was a man who stood eight feet tall and a little person who could be balanced on the hand of a clown.

The circus stayed for just two days, giving two shows in the afternoon and late evening. Dad said they couldn't go to two shows as he'd given the rest of his money to Mom, who would stretch it as no one else could. But he and his buddies would roam around the grounds as the show went on, peeking into the tents only to be shooed away by the circus boss. What really impressed my Dad were the colorful circus wagons that served as the performers' homes. Ornate carvings and brilliant colors completely covered the wagons, and he could only wonder what the insides looked like. He got a chance in a million when a wagon door opened, and he got a glimpse inside that was just as beautiful as the outside.

The next morning, bright and early, another line formed to earn 2 dollars taking down the tents, but he had arrived too late and missed out, so all he could do was watch as the animals and wagons were loaded onto the train to begin their next journey to another small town in America. That afternoon, the field that was used for the circus was back to being just that, an empty field that would be used to play baseball until the next time the sound of the circus train signaled the arrival of the greatest show on earth. My Dad loved the circus, and at age 18, he joined it, traveling across the country and bringing smiles to everyone who attended. He trained with the clowns and, before long, became one of the most popular. He designed his own costume and face paint, with a shaggy blond wig, a red rubber nose, shoes 10 sizes too big, and a painted-on grin that gave him the look of happiness.

Dad passed away after 20 years of being a circus clown. His name is remembered as the greatest clown in the world. Now his wagon, which was his home, sits at the circus museum, where his costume is on display for all to see. It's a beautiful wagon, just like the one he saw as a boy, with circus blood running through his veins.

Mike 2026

                                                          

Scents of nature

 Patches of green poke through thawing ground. Streams, once ice-covered, now bubble and begin their journey. Buds appear on the mighty oaks—a sign of coming leaves that will shade hot summer days. Smells once hidden by snow fill my senses with earth's sweetness. I walk slowly in the forest. My boots crunch remaining snow. My whole being absorbs scents so pungent they make me lightheaded. The smell of the moss always lingers as wildflowers try to emerge first, and saplings stretch upward, announcing themselves. Mud appears everywhere, its distinct smell pleasant until it pulls your boots in, unwilling to let go as you try to escape. I smell life all around me, a combination of last year's decay of leaves entombed under a blanket of melting snow, now just reminders of the brilliant colors of Autumn.

The smell of rotted trees, their life cut short by the frigid winds tossing branches around like pick-up sticks left to rot. It's not a bad smell, it's just another scent that fills me with the wonders of the forest. The deeper I walk, the more I notice a new kind of smell. More earthly and much stronger than the smells I've walked past. The giant trees, close together, form a sort of barricade, shutting out the light and creating a darkness with smells of their own. I describe what forces its way into my nose as more than just the smell of moss or decay; it's an endless dampness and shadows, a kind of warning: there's nothing for you beyond the front lines of the mighty trees.

Soon, the quiet walks I take will reveal hundreds of summer scents to me. The smell of fresh mowed grass and baled hay. The smell of a barn and the fuel for tractors. Meadows of wildflowers and countless types of plants, each with its own earthly scent. The once-muddy paths will be hardened into dirt, allowing safe passage through the valleys and hollers. The barricade of old trees isn't so dark this time of year as rays of sunlight peek through their mighty branches, allowing safe passage should you want to explore that part of the forest.

So many smells that stay with me, reminders of the earth's ability to change with the seasons and show me the ways to appreciate each and every one.

Mike 2026                                                      

Realizations

 He learned how to take care of himself; he had no choice. He relied on her for much more than he realized. Often in small ways and sometimes in difficult ones, he began to understand how much she did without complaint. He laughed a bit when he remembered asking for coffee. He had never made coffee himself; she always did that. The pot was an old percolator: you filled it with water, put coffee in the basket, and put it on the stove until it finished brewing. When it stopped making noise, it was ready. He remembers pouring out what looked like engine oil—thick and very black. He hadn't known not to fill the basket completely with coffee. Lesson learned.

He worked the same job at the factory for thirty years, and all those years she worked at home doing countless tasks he was ashamed to admit went unnoticed. She did nearly everything around the house, even things he should have done, insisting she could do them. He came home once to find her under the kitchen sink, arms deep in garbage, pipe wrench in hand, blaming him again for putting large pieces of food down the drain.

She was a wife, a homemaker, a bookkeeper, a gardener, and so much more, mostly unnoticed. Now, as he sits alone at the table where they had shared so many meals, he laughs softly, remembering how she always needed to be close to the oven. She would tell him to sit in the chair across from her, out of her way, in case she needed to move quickly, so her pie wouldn't burn. He's still sitting in that same chair he sat in for 30 years.

The house isn't like it was when she was here. Almost everything needed dusting, and the dog, whom she didn't like being inside, now rules the place, leaving muddy prints she would have put an end to. Just like he looked around the kitchen once, a picture of organization is now a game of hide-and-seek to find the coffee creamer. He isnt a total slob, he's just not as particular as she was.

He missed her in so many ways, and the emptiness inside is more than he can bear, but he keeps moving forward shed want that for him. He does believe, however, that even though they discussed it a hundred times, he knew in his heart she didn't want him to start dating when she was gone. He laughed at remembering that, then laughed some more, picturing himself going to Bingo at the senior center.

He was sad but also content living in their house, even when dust took over. He perfected his coffee-making and washed the sink full of dirty dishes, careful not to clog the drain. He sat in his assigned chair in the kitchen and thought about the life they shared in the same house, with the same memories that consume him with a loneliness he fights every day to live with. No one is truly prepared for losing someone who held your heart in their hands for decades. But we are prepared and ready to leave the dust behind us, knowing that when they meet again, she's going to have plenty to say about her clean house. He laughed a little, saying, " You got that right.

Mike 2026                                  

Quit or dont quit

 We've all made promises like, "I'll never drink again" or "If I even smell a beer, I'll lose it." Maybe, "This is my last cigarette," "I'm going on a diet on January first," or "I'm actually going to take the clothes off the exercise bicycle and use it." We've all told ourselves we're going to do something, but we end up making excuses not to. This is how I see a conversation between an elderly wife and her husband on New Year's Eve.

So, how many more cigarettes are in the pack, honey? There are four hours left in 2025, and if you smoke two an hour, that means you'll smoke eight total and finally be done with them, right? Yeah, but what do I do with the other twelve? Maybe I should hide them somewhere in case I go through a bad withdrawal. How about you give me the pack minus the eight, and I'll get rid of them for you. He held the pack almost griving the absence of packing the tobacco down by slapping the pack into an open hand, placing the cigarette in his mouth and striking a match on his boot quickly enough for the flame to reach the tip of the cigarette and create an orange glow while you suck in that first draw watching as smoke rises in the air and fills your lungs with a feeling of fullfilment as the nicoteen travels through you brain into your lungs and exits as a smoke ring you cant help trying to blow more. Are you scared to quit she asked him. If I'm honest, he replied, I've been dreading this day just like I dreaded the last ten New Year's Eves.

And what about you? he asked her, are you going to limit the glasses of wine you drink every day? Or will you have every excuse why you need it to calm your nerves after a hard day at work, or our money situation isnt good right now, that's a good one. Did you know that every week, when the trash truck stops, the sound of bottles clanking is enough to wake the neighbors? And don't tell me it's not just wine bottles. I'm not stupid. Last time I looked, orange juice comes in cardboard containers, as does milk, and most of the other things we use. Now there are less than 4 hours, and you have one full bottle and another half bottle. Are you telling me you're going to drink all of it before the ball drops?

Are you telling me you're going to try and finish that pack you're guarding with your life? Are you telling me youre going to somehow finish a bottle and a half by yourself? There was an eerie silence in the room as both of them tried to come up with a solution, but more likely, more excuses why they shouldn't stop. He lit up another smoke while she sipped some wine, both lost in their own dilemma. Then she spoke up, " What if we stashed away a couple packs of smokes for you and a couple bottles of wine for me, and for every day we don't touch them, we will make love. That gave kicking the habit a whole new meaning. For the love of Mike, Sally were seventy nine years old and lucky if we got a roll in the hay twice a year on our birthdays.

Midnight arrived with a new year filled with hope. As for those two, it was a game they played every year to pacify their grown-up children, but all the while knowing the liquor cabinet was equally divided with bottles of wine and cartons of cigarettes hidden from sight in a piece of furniture that never got a second look. The next day, the old couple sat in their favorite chairs as she poured a glass of wine and he struck a match on his boot to light a cigarette. That was some fun last night, wasn't it, old gal? But don't you think we'd be better off without the wine and smokes? What I think, sir, is you should go to the cabinet. I need a bottle, and for the love of Mike, empty that ashtray.

Mike 2026