Transistor radio

 Clothes blow on the line in a summer breeze as the top ten hits play on a red, maybe light blue, transistor radio. He's coming home today, and you didn't want to look like Casper, the ghost, so you're lying on a blanket, the one your mother gave to you, and you couldn't bear to tell her how much you disliked it. But it serves you well for this task. As you leaf through the pages of Glamour magazine, your thoughts are with him and your thanks to God for his safe return. The taxi stopped in front of our house, and my legs grew weak as I watched him walk towards me, that huge smile I loved so much stretching across his beautiful face. I ran and jumped into his arms, our bodies together again, our desires too strong to ignore. Now, we lie together on a blanket as the wind blows the clothes on the line, and the top ten hits play softly in the distance on a light blue or maybe red transistor radio.

MO

Faded

 I wore a hat like my dad did almost every day. Mom said I had to let my scalp breathe or, by eighteen, I'd be bald. He wore his hats until they were threadbare and faded from the sun, while I had to replace mine more often as my head grew along with the rest of me. I would watch him take his hat off to wipe his face, then do the same thing, only to get salt in my eyes and a silent scream. I'd catch him looking at me with a smile as I did everything he did, only slower, as he wiped away more sweat or maybe just some salty tears. I'm grown now with a son, a shadow who tries to keep up with me and wears a faded old hat his grandpa gave him. He's lost in it right now, but he will grow into it one day, and the cycle will continue as well it should.

MO

Flow like honey

 I've wondered when my days of writing would come to an end. When the words stayed buried in my mind, stories forever untold. Like my body, my mind has slowed, and with it, gratitude for words written and words told to sleepy eyes in mother's arms or reading under the covers, the moon a flashlight guiding you to every word as monsters waited in the darkness of your room. I've wondered how many of my stories touched someone who knew the loss of love or loss in general. How many tears have fallen, and how many smiles have turned into glorious laughter echoing through the halls of life? I've wondered when the writing would end, but I've realized that even a slow pen is better than no pen. The words may only flow like honey, but inside of me, there is another story to be told, no matter how long it takes.

MO

Numbers game

 I can't see to the end of the road anymore, yet I know it's there somewhere between the rows of corn and fields of strawberries. I'll never grow tired of the smells out here where summer rains linger, and soft breezes move the hanging sheets like a chorus line in a faraway city. It's been a while since I counted my footsteps from the front porch to the mailbox that sits by the road, but they don't change much except maybe get a little slower. I reach and look inside, but the box is empty, which is typical because bills are paid online, and writing a letter with scented paper is long forgotten. I stand there for a bit in case Ray, the mailman, is running late, but that is just wishful thinking as he is the poster child of the mail service and never lets anything stop him from his appointed rounds. I turned and headed for the house where supper would be cooking, with the smells soon reaching my nose and grumbling stomach. Four hundred forty-six steps is what I counted as the screen door slammed behind me, and the only counting was the number of times I asked for more.

MO

Salty dogs

 This is where old sailors come to rest, where tides roll in and out. With no land in sight, just twelve knots forward and endless stars to guide you through the night. This is where the mermaids come to say hello and lead you to Neptunes' land, where you'll live with other salty dogs right where you belong. You'll hear the props of the boat above that brought you here now, heading back to shore. The dried teardrops of loved ones remembering you as the quiet takes center stage now and forever more. I swim with others and alone in spirit form, water rushing through my gills as I move like a dolphin with speed and hairpin moves through the cool water and the wonders yet to see. I am the salt of the sea right where I need to be. Farewell, my earthly sailors. You have many seas to sail. And when your time has come, and you can say you've rung more salt out of your socks than most have sailed on, we will watch crystal waters turn gray with ash as you're welcomed to Neptune and a sailors well deserved resting place.

MO

How often?

 How often had he opened the front door and closed it behind him? How often did he look at that door before unlocking it to enter again? And how often did he not enter but quietly backed off and disappeared into the darkness of a place where he wasn't judged or screamed at like a madman? Life is too short to keep wondering if you'll turn the key and walk inside or stay away until silence is the only thing to greet you.

MO

Bad raindrops

 Instead of vivid color everywhere, there's gray all around me. Like being stuck in the middle of a rain cloud, waiting my turn to plummet to earth below. Who in their right mind would want to be a raindrop in another life, not me. It is probably more fun to be the spot it landed on, like someone's head or hat, maybe on an expensive pair of shoes or a designer purse being held overhead to attract even more drops. Some drops are lucky and meet death in a community puddle where hundreds of drops fall and spend the following few hours dodging the footsteps of those running away from the billions of drops now falling with a fury. Soon, the gray disappeared, replaced with blue skies and puffy white clouds so proud of themselves it made me want to puke raindrops. Two can play this game, I said as the sky turned black, skipping right past gray and opening up, spilling more drops than could ever be counted. Don't fool with Mother Nature. She gets what she wants when she wants it, I said as I watched umbrellas in every color of the rainbow fly past me, leaving behind soaking-wet people who weren't laughing. Not one bit.

MO