TRICK OR TREAT

 Little ghosts and goblins run from house to house as parents watch  them closely, making sure they say thank you for all the future cavities. It doesn't seem so long ago that I was running from door to door, putting goodies in a pillow case that got heavy with every doorbell rung. I yelled for my sisters to catch up as my mom stood nearby with a flashlight to guide our way. It's my grandkids I watch now, at least the little ones who grow so fast it won't be long, and they will answer the door for those ghosts and goblins. Now I sit by the window and, every so often, take my dentures out, scaring the heck out of the little monsters. You're never too old for trick or treats. HAPPY HALOWEEN!

MO

Loving Autumn

 It won't be long, and the colors of autumn will be replaced with a blanket of white. So take my hand and walk with me through the small town we call home as we show you God's work in all its splendor. Stop walking for a minute and look up at the maple trees lining the street, their leaves multi-colored, creating a picture once seen and never forgotten. Look down the side streets as children jump into piles of freshly raked leaves, their parents laughing, remembering when it was them who jumped. Autumn means bringing out the jackets and your favorite scarves and boots for those who can't wait. Autumn is apple cider, pumpkin pie, and giving thanks for the blessings we've received. It's family and friends together again, and the voices of children being children filling the house with laughter and love. Autumn is something so beautiful we hold onto it for as long as we can before those blankets of snow creep toward us, and we string colored lights to cover the white. All seasons have their beauty, but mine happens to be autumn, which is one masterpiece everyone can relate to.

MO

How I see it

 He walks alone, but he is not. Her hand still holds his; at least, he sees it that way. They laugh and walk through an autumn meadow where the colors take your breath away, as does her beauty. At least, he sees it that way. He talks out loud at times, not caring who may hear. After all, he spoke to her every day for sixty-seven years. Why stop now, or at least that's how he sees it? His daughter looks out the window and watches him slowly walk down the dirt road, waving his arms and laughing, sometimes stopping to make a point about one thing or another. He seems happy for those moments he has with her mom, and why should she or anybody take even a second away from him? At least, that's how she sees it.

MO

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