I remember her hands

 I remember my small hand in hers and the way she squeezed it for no reason. I remember her holding my hand as we crossed the street and only letting go when I was safe. I remember her holding my hand when I got sick, fighting back her tears, and assuring me everything would be all right. I remember her hand guiding the pencil as she taught me how to write. I remember her hand turning the pages of every book she read and brushing away my hair to kiss me on my forehead and say goodnight. I remember my mother's hands and the love she put into everything she did for me. I remember her in her garden, how she loved to get her hands dirty, and the smell of lotion, as she said she had to stay young. But she didn't stay young, and her hands, once milky white, became weathered, showing the times of her life, times as a teacher, and all the precious times her hands showed me the way. I remember Mom. I remember your soft hands gently holding my cheeks and telling me everything would be ok as you blew me a kiss and said goodbye.

Happy Mother's Day in Heaven, Mom.

Mike 2024

Sands in the hourglass

 The last few grains of sand in the hourglass are just grains away, and the splendor of the night sky is dimming. I have a few regrets, most of which I had spent more time with my family. I've seen too much death and sorrow, which has hardened my heart, allowing me to escape mourning and to tell myself all will be good when the road comes to an end. But I realize keeping my emotions buried deep inside only causes me more sorrow and more pain. Seven plus decades, and I remember them all constant reminders of the gift I didn't ask for. A writer of stories has only his memories to give characters life and his imagination to bring those lives meaning. I have learned that my characters often reflect someone I met along the way, and I take bits and pieces from them and make them better with my imagination. It's been a good run, except for the fame most writers hope for. My work will become dusty papers and flash drives hidden among the things in my house that will be discarded, and rightfully so. Early American trash has memory only to me. Things I call my comfort, each piece a memory, a flashback, and a moment in time, I'm back to the happiness I remember so well.

Mike 2024

Remembering

 I was young once, though I'm told otherwise. Some say I have an old soul, which is apparent in my writings. I've been told I channel Gibran, the writer of the Cedars of Lebanon. I don't know about that. I know my words come from a place I am getting closer to every day. I've often thought, who do you think you are because when I read something I wrote, it's actually good even if I don't know how the words found their way to the paper. 

I have sought comfort in writing for more years than I care to admit. It's my escape from the outside world, a place I've grown increasingly determined to avoid. I get lost in words, finding ways to express good things and make my readers smile, if only for a brief moment. I may take them to the circus, where the children scream with joy, and the smells of cotton candy and popcorn fill your senses as you sniff the air as you read.

I'll take you back to a time in your life when the family was everything and the American dream was a reality. Or I'll let you remember a certain person in my writing who reminds you of someone just like them. I've often said I believe it's God guiding my pen. Whatever the reason or the logic, I'm a storyteller and have been for decades. 

Now, as the sand in the hourglass continues to move, I am slowing down with the crafting of words. I find myself forgetting more, and unlike years ago, when I could write a chapter in hours, now I have to wait for the words to find their way into my mind and hope they make sense when finished.

I imagine everyone facing old age tries to hold on to yesterday in one way or another. I'm no exception as I search my soul for things to write things that will bring smiles, tears, and a memory or two for those who have forgotten.

Mike 2024 

Flashbacks

 Zeplin shakes the foundation of our party house. Clouds of pot and hash fill our noses with the sweetness of the gods. Small groups sit in the corner, watching every movement around them in spooky silence. Trails entwine fingers as the colors roll past. Someone puts the needle down too hard on the record, and someone yells to take it to fuck easy with the vinyl. Jethro Tull, black sabbath, and cream surround us as the giant speakers blast out the best of the best rock. A young girl braids the hair of a newfound friend, and the smell coming from the kitchen means the munchies are taking over for a while anyway. Boons farm wine, goofy grape, strawberry hill, and cheap beer littered on every table dead soldier who didn't stand a chance. The bedrooms are filled with shared sex and sleep and rinse and repeat. Night falls, and the black lights come alive, making faces all teeth and who knows what glowing on the floors. Time to drop some purple haze or brown barrel, maybe some masculine, depending on what the dealer had on him. Some of us went outside to trip on everything we saw, weaving our way to the park where others gathered to hear the music of local talent and others who made a name for themselves among us. The soft grass made for a blanket, looking up at the stars and hoping for a shooter. Was all this killing your brain cells, or was it enlightenment into another space in time only known to those of us who let it matter then and now? Regrets, no way. Id be leery of a repeat at my age although I can picture a hit of mescaline and a bottle of Goofy grape while a young girl braded my gray hair.

Mike 2024

Final Journey

 I was sleeping soundly when I felt a wave of cool air fill my room. I began to rise out of the bed in spirit form, looking down to see myself lying peacefully still. I had died that early winter day, but I felt no fear as an angel held on to me, and we continued to rise into what emptiness meant. As we rose higher, the sky turned into a misty blue, then white like I'd never seen. I felt nothing and only saw what I was intended to see. Time had no meaning, as did the earthly form I left behind in my bed to be discovered by a loved one. I knew it was my soul; I felt it because I had no body anymore, just a mind and a feeling of peace taking me to the next part of my journey. Without warning, the angel let go of me, and I was standing, although I had no legs. Yet I stood in the softness of the sky or thats what I was led to believe.

Soon, other spirits joined me, and my mind showed me those who had passed before me—my parents, siblings, friends, and those I never knew but I did. Our minds spoke as lifetimes were remembered to the finest detail, and happiness surrounded us as it was meant to be. Time had no meaning here among the stars and planets and beyond. And all the things we had wondered about were answered.

Then, like the angel, the souls left and went in all directions, leaving me alone again, standing with no legs on a cloud of misty blue. Then I felt a warm presence close by and knew I would face God at that moment. He came to me, and his beauty and kindness surrounded me like a warm blanket. He spoke softly, filling my soul with words meant only for me. He made me remember every big and small detail of my life until I was so filled with memories I had to stop. He opened his arms and beckoned me, speaking softly that he'd been waiting for me just as he had done with all those I loved and cared about. He held me as we floated upward to a place that filled me with love only God could understand.

As we emerged from the clouds, I fell to my knees, though I had none. I cried at the beauty surrounding me and thanked him for allowing me entry. I realized we spend our earthly lives trying to live by God's wishes and repenting when we don't. I knew my God was forgiving, and even the most horrible sins can be forgiven if you just ask him. Life seemed so hard at times, but now I know it was meant to be so we can prove our love for him and denounce what lies in wait below the clouds of misty blue

Mike 2024

Chances

 I saw the arches beyond a sky with crimson clouds. A single stairstep beckoned me, but my feet held firm. 

I heard the faint music of a flute and caught a glimpse of a white wing.

A figure appeared but only in shadows, and his presence humbled me.

No words were spoken, yet I heard him weeping.

Then he was gone, and a loneliness enveloped me I could not shake.

I didn't want life without him, but I fear he has given me too many chances, and I've broken every bridge.

The sky was black now, and all I saw and heard was silent and gone in a whisper. On bended knees, I begged for forgiveness, and although I was not worthy, I felt a sense of relief knowing he had given me a glimpse of tomorrow and yet another chance.

Mike 2024

Seasons of life

 A bowl of Quaker oats on a cold winter morning and mom putting a second layer of clothes on us as she scurried around looking for one more mitten lost somewhere in the pile of jackets, leggings, and hats. Found it, she yelled as we let the door close behind us on our way to the shed and our sleds. It was the first big snowfall of winter 1960, and we didn't want to miss a second. We reached the park as many kids did that cold morning in December, climbing up the hill to the top, where we caught our breath before speeding down the hill at breakneck speeds, coming to a stop at the edge of the park, ready to go again. Some older kids were having a snowball fight, and if you weren't vigilant, you'd get hit, and believe me, it hurt. Other older kids were hitching rides, holding on to a car's rear bumper as they skated without skates, only letting go when the car slowed down and the driver shouting for them to get off. Every year

A firetruck flooded a section of the ice rink in another part of the park. By tomorrow, the water would be six inches of solid ice. We laced up our skates and went around and around the rink, trying to avoid the human chains and other things the older kids tried to make us crash. After a while, they stayed to themselves, playing hockey at one end of the rink, and left us alone in our section, free of any abuse.

After supper, with homework finished, if Dad was in a good mood, he told us to lace up. We were going night skating. Mom was first out of the door, her skates slung over her shoulder as Dad hurried us along. The lights in the park were also used for night baseball games in the summer, and the park ranger, Mr. Brownly, was in charge of turning them on and shutting them off as long as the rink remained open for skating, which was usually about April but sometimes longer. If he determined it wasn't safe to skate, he would rope the rink off, and that was the end of skating until next winter.

Springtime in the park meant baseball season was underway. The groundskeepers planted grass and brought in a few loads of dirt to be turned into the diamond. The bases were set out, and the scoreboard was fitted with fresh paint and new lightbulbs, some of which burned out during the skating season. Our town's little league baseball teams were formed, and practice was three times a week, with Saturday games. Moms, dads, and siblings filled the bleachers on game day, cheering on their teams as a vendor walked up and down, hawking peanuts and cold drinks, but the real treats were the hotdog vendors who set up their small trailers behind the bleachers. The smell enticed everyone. Summer brought the heat and the long baseball season, with teams being eliminated and the best two going to the playoffs. That was a night game under the lights on a Saturday night. Those hot, steamy summer nights with ladies and colorful fans and men in sweat-stained t-shirts barking orders to their sons to the dismay of the umpires. The winners got a trophy and a place in the town newspaper, while the losing team vowed, they would win next year.

Summer in the park brought with it sunbathers and the sounds of transistor radios blaring out the latest hits. Coolers filled with pops, snacks, and some beer, being careful to avoid getting caught by the park rangers always looking for something. The fountain in the middle of the park was big, with water gushing from an underground spring. It was the perfect place to cool off, and as long as you behaved, the rangers left you alone. Summer nights under the stars was a Friday tradition where blankets were spread out and lawn chairs set up to listen to the music of the town bands. People roamed around, stopping to chat with a friend or neighbor until kids were falling asleep on the blankets, and soon, the night was over until the next time. The fourth of July brought backyard picnics, the smell of hotdogs and burgers filling the air like a comforting blanket, and boxes of fireworks magically appearing from the garage where Dad had hidden them like he did every year. At almost nine o'clock, the city fireworks display lit up the sky with all the colors of a rainbow, and the BOOM that followed scared the little kids into their mother's arms.

Summer gave way to autumn and the dazzling display of colored leaves, pumpkin patches, and cider. Wed rake the leaves into giant piles, then run and crash into the piles time and again, each better than before. Autumn also brought the Fall festival and parade with cars, trucks, and even tractors all decorated with colored leaves and corn husks. Pumpkins competing in the pumpkin contest were placed on a flatbed, and everyone got to vote as they passed by. The louder the applause, the more votes it received.

Autumn also meant Halloween, a time for store-bought costumes and, some made by moms. Yards were decorated with scary ghosts and goblins, and on the front steps, a carved pumpkin or two, depending on how many kids lived there. Pillowcases were filled with an assortment of candy and treats like popcorn and candy apples. Some people even handed out shiny new dimes. Back at the house, Mom would make piles of what we could have and others with things we couldn't have. All the hard candies were put in a pile for Mom and Dad as they didn't want us chipping a tooth or getting a piece stuck in our throats. Last Halloween, my next-door neighbor, who was seven at the time, choked on hard candy, and his mom had to pour warm water down his throat to melt the candy, allowing him to cough it up. Autumn ended with Thanksgiving as family and friends gathered at grandma's house and a meal fit for a king. Grandpa had passed five years ago, so we had to settle for a store-bought turkey instead of a live one he hunted for every year. I'll never forget the family traditions of letting the oldest child carve the turkey and the girls helping in the kitchen, learning the secrets of the best-mashed potatoes and pumpkin pies. Days of cooking are gone in minutes as stuffed bellies find a place to rest, usually in front of the television and a football game or two. Leftovers were wrapped in foil, and everyone got to take some home, which meant the same dinner the next day, and that was fine with us.

Winter followed, and that meant Christmas was just around the corner. If the weather cooperated, we'd have snow, which meant sledding and skating on that frozen ice rink and sliding down the big hill time and time again until we had to go home and warm up with a bowl of hot soup Mom had waiting. It also meant finding the perfect Christmas tree in the country on a Sunday after church. Wed load up in the station wagon and sing Christmas songs all the way there. The Christmas tree farm was huge, with pathways to see the trees without damaging them. Once the perfect tree was found and we all agreed, Dad swung the axe and fell the tree, thinking he was Daniel Boone. We dragged the tree to the car, and Dad tied it on the roof, still pleased with himself over cutting down the tree with only three whacks of the axe. On the way back home, we stopped at a little diner and had hot chocolate, and Mom forced herself to stop wiping our mouths covered in whipped cream. Back home, Dad took the tree inside and into a stand. Tomorrow when the tree branches fell into place, we decorated it with strands of lights and ornaments we had made at school over the tears. I remember we had the idea of stringing popcorn around the tree one year, which turned out to be much harder than we thought. We didn't do that again. We learned as youngsters to save our money, which we earned by doing odd jobs for neighbors, cutting grass in the summer months, and shoveling snow in the winter. Lemonade stands and washing cars were just a few things we did to make some Christmas money. When it became time to buy gifts, we had enough of that saved money to buy a nice present for everyone in the family.

And that, my friends, was the year 1960 in seasons. I remember many more seasons spent with loved ones and friends, and I could write about every one of them. The joys and happiness, the loss of loved ones, and the births of new family members. Life does go in circles, and lucky are we to remember each and every one.

Mike 2024