Author Mike OConnor: Living in memories.

Author Mike OConnor: Living in memories.: I see the world from memory the way I want it to be. In real time it is heart breaking, and tears flow to freely. We are a nation filled w...

Living in memories.

I see the world from memory the way I want it to be. In real time it is heart breaking, and tears flow to freely. We are a nation filled with good people who care about others before themselves, who do not want to be recognized for doing the right thing. They are the ones who come running when you are in need. The ones who risk their lives to try and save the lives of strangers. The silent heroes of today all but forgotten tomorrow.

Some say the media dictates the mood of the country well, then nothing should hit the airwaves but happy news, right? Babies saying their first words, children playing in the rain. Horses running free and dogs laying in your lap. People doing random acts of kindness and taking a minute out of the day to smile at someone you do not know.

Unfortunately, the world is not always happy. People are not always nice and those who do unspeakable acts upon their own draw universal attention from both sides. Why must there be two sides? Isn’t right, right and wrong, wrong? That is how I have always understood it to be. Just ask any veteran who served beside soldiers of all race and creeds. Brothers in arms who would die for you and never leave you behind.

We trained together, lived together and fought together only to return home and become divided by some invisible force we stopped seeing in the battlefields. I can say the same thing for doctors, nurses and all first responders. I can say the same for that kid who helps an elderly neighbor keep their lawn trimmed or the delivery person who asks if you need anything?

Our streets should be paved with the hopes and dreams of all people not stained with the blood of those perceived to be someone they are not. The invisible hatred that has no place in a world where kindness is so evident everywhere you look. It is true I choose to see the world through my memories. A safe place where lessons taught and held onto bring an occasional smile and hope for a better tomorrow.

Author Mike OConnor: Moonlight Dance.

Author Mike OConnor: Moonlight Dance.: He sat on her chair, the one she sat on when she needed some space. He could close his eyes and picture her fidgeting with her handkerchie...

Moonlight Dance.

He sat on her chair, the one she sat on when she needed some space. He could close his eyes and picture her fidgeting with her handkerchief wiping a tear from her eyes. He had yelled over something stupid, and his anger that should have been left inside spilled out to her. She was a gentle soul, one who never rose her voice in anger, a trait he wished he had.

Her scent was still in the room they shared for over fifty years. Just saying that made him realize how blessed he truly was. He didn’t deserve her, not for a minute. How many times did he tell her that he wondered? Probably not enough. She prepared for the day when their times together wouldn’t be as clear to them, so she made a photo album that portrayed their life together and brief descriptions of each memory.

He didn’t hear their daughter come into the room and sit next to him. He smiled at her, always amazed at how much she looked like her mother. Together they looked through his memories in the big red book, sometimes he faded away, but he came back. The last photo in the book was taken two months ago. They were dancing under the moonlight at the small outdoor band-shell  they had danced at for so many years. The caption read, “Our last dance until we meet again.”

He sometimes walks into town, having a seat at that old band-shell. He closes his eyes and hears the music playing all their favorite songs. Passer byes must surely think he’s crazy this old man dancing alone but looking like he was holding someone. He didn’t care what they thought, how could anyone understand?  He took a walk one day and was late getting home. His daughter worried but thought she knew where he might be. There he was on the band-shell stage, dancing his way across the floor, alone, of course, but not to him. She waited a few moments then gently put his arms around her as the music he heard continued.

‘Don’t you look beautiful tonight” he told her,”Have I told you that lately,” She nodded and let him guide her across the silence of a bright autumn moon.

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Author Mike OConnor: Dusty bottles

Author Mike OConnor: Dusty bottles: Empty whiskey bottles sat where they poured their last shot. Dusty glass reminders of a life thrown away. The runner on a rocking chair wa...

Dusty bottles

Empty whiskey bottles sat where they poured their last shot. Dusty glass reminders of a life thrown away. The runner on a rocking chair was split, but it didn’t stop him from rocking. His blank stare a reminder of nothing left to see. His tobacco stained shirt and trousers Hadn't seen a washing to far back to recall. It didn’t matter to him; nobody was ever going to see him anyway. He closed his place, going on three years he reckoned. Weren’t no customers come by after the factories closed up. He tried to make a go of it, putting out bologna sandwiches for free, but they still didn’t come back.

The town was all but empty, not just because of the shutdowns, but a sickness spread across the land that nobody saw coming. Killed thousands of folk across the nation, but he didn’t get called, no he was spared for reasons he drank about. He lived upstairs just like his daddy and mom did who ran the bar for near fifty years. He took over after daddy passed on, leaving his mom to die of a broken heart four months later. It was just a corner bar, nothing fancy: one pool table and a dartboard in the back room.

They had a  fish fry on Fridays that brought people in from miles around. It was mom's secret batter that made it so tasty. He’d asked her a thousand times what it was, but she kept him waiting until she was nearly gone—whispering in his ear, “molasses,”No more fish fry or games of pool. A silent jukebox with haunting memories of favorite songs. It’s all gone now, and it isn't coming back. Leastwise not for him. The booze was almost gone, maybe a bottle or two that he figured he’d leave behind for somebody to find, they could trade it for something badly needed. Lots of that going on now in this so-called new world.

He raised the bottle of vodka, leaning back in the rocker and tilting his head to accept the final swallow of sorrow and sadness. It happened fast that sound of wood snapping as the rocking chair splintered, his neck smashing down upon a jagged edge of a dusty bottle. Death was swift just the way he would have wanted it to be, I suppose. That place just stands there now waiting for a wrecking ball that’s working its way up the street heading for that nice little family bar that had a great fish fry.

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Author Mike OConnor: Leader of the band

Author Mike OConnor: Leader of the band: My mind plays a marching band of tunes as I journey down the road that is my life. Each turn in the way another note, a song taking sh...