By Russ Hartz

     A few years ago I lost my soul mate.

     As I sit here watching and listening to all the kids playing together on the beach and I see the sailboat far out on the lake, I can’t help but reflect on our lives together.         

    Mitch was always there for me. And I thank God for the wonderful life he provided for us and all our children.

    When little Mitchel Jr. was born, Mitch came into my hospital room, scooped him up into his arms beaming and said, “Look Patty, God has blessed us by sending us one of his little angels to care for.” He said that about all our children . . . and grandchildren.               

    But then Mitch was always a sentimentalist. I could never figure out why he was so devoted to my mother. I’ve never known a man to be so devoted to his mother-in-law. He always said she was a giant of a woman.

    Mom used to say, “It’s probably because I lost my own family and Mitch was impressed by my devotion to you.”

     When Mom passed away Mitch broke down and cried like a baby. I had never seen him cry before. He was embarrassed about it and explained, “She was a giant of a woman . . . and she risked so much to save you for me.”

    I wasn’t sure what he meant by that. But I didn’t question it. I always knew she was great.

    I still remember that first night when Mitch took me to the dance. I never told him but until then I had thought of him as the big brother I never had. He was so different from the other boys with whom I had gone out.                

    In my mind’s eye I can still see the harbor lights glistening across the water. And when he slipped the engagement ring on my finger . . . I knew it was the best thing that would ever happen to me. Except for all these wonderful children in my life.

    I’m so tired.

    Oh . . . ! Mitchel . . . ? Mitch   

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By Ed Baranosky

  (Wednesday, Nov.15, 2022)

         Family and friends were sitting in pews in St. Jude’s church in Monroe. A flag draped coffin was in the center aisle in front of the altar. The priest had just concluded the funeral mass for Ed Baranosky. He addressed the people saying “Ed’s daughter would like to say a few words about her father.”

        Susan went to the lectern and adjusted the microphone. Daubing her eyes with a tissue she took a few moments to compose herself. In the angry voice of her mother’s Scottish heritage she said “If my dad wasn’t such a stubborn old man he wouldn’t be in that damn box waiting for his ass to be burned to a crisp. A few gasps mingled with a bit of laughter filtered through the assembled mourners.

        She turned to the priest and said “sorry for the language Father. The priest nodded and smiled. Susan went on. “He should have been at home today making scrambled eggs, home fries and bacon. He called Wednesday his ‘egg day.’”

        In September his children and their spouses, grandchildren and their spouses and great-grand children celebrated dad’s 94th birthday.

         His eyes teared up on Veteran’s day last Saturday when his great-granddaughters told him “thank you for your service Papa.”

         I checked on him Monday morning on my way to work. He told me he was going to make a fire in the fireplace because of the cold snap that came in overnight.

         I said “Dad the chimney hasn’t been cleaned. Please wait until it’s cleaned.”

          I left for work.

         At noon I got a call from my sister Sandy. When she went to check on Dad she found him by the wood pile. Apparently he was chopping wood with an old axe and when Dad lifted the axe over his head the axe came off the handle and struck him in the head.

         He was our Dad and we loved him dearly. He was one of a kind they don’t make any  more. We will miss him.

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 By Juan Rodriguez

     Juan Rodriguez, colloquially referred to as an “eccentric old author” by those in the neighborhood, succumbed to old age surrounded by his children.

     His final words were “Worry not, I’ve had a good run. I got what everyone gets, a lifetime.”

     Juan was known for his love of hyperbole, absurdism and his ability to quote poetry on a whim, especially Bukoswski.

     His antics had him committed involuntarily many times over the course of his life time. He would often refer to the hospital as his personal writer’s retreat.

     Though they were often short stints, his wife Becky would retrieve him explaining that it was all a big game.

     He would have conversations and only allow himself respond with movie quotes, song lyrics or poetry.

     A novel concept to those who knew the game it was a sight to behold. To others the nonsensical responses sounded like the ravings of a madman or someone on the verge of a stroke.

     Juan was a retired letter carrier and moderately successful novelist. He often said that his day job lent itself well to his hobby.

     There in the monotony of repetitive tasks the muses would strike and he would stop to write down the idea before the inspiration was gone.

     In retirement he put out more of his work, going through decades of notebooks, apps and journal entries, collecting them for what he called “just another coffee table book” for his loyal fan base.

    The literary world has lost one it’s most devout absurdists. But his work lives on.

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By John-Paul Marciano

    I never saw it coming.  I didn’t hear anything.  No one said a word.  There was no warning, no alarm, no siren; only silence.  It’s not supposed to be like this.  Is it?

    I can see but only what is before me.  I can hear a soft wind gently blowing through the trees.  I can see the leaves gently flutter on the breeze.  I am not in total darkness.  There is light peeking through the canopy.  I can hear a bird sing but I cannot turn my head to see it.  It shouldn’t be like this.  Should it?

    The fresh smell of grass vies for dominance with the pungent aroma of soil.  I cannot see them but I know they are there.  I am parched.  My tongue sticks to my palate, but I cannot quench my thirst.  I try to move my arms but to no avail.  Likewise, my legs lay lifeless like two fallen trees.  I don’t understand what happened; they were working just a few minutes earlier.  Weren’t they?

    I wish to speak but I cannot.  If I could, would anyone hear me?  Better still, would anyone care to listen?  Maybe not, but that’s never stopped me before.  Why can’t I speak?  Where has my voice gone?

    I think I hear my heart beating.  I can’t tell it’s real or if it’s just in my mind. It really doesn’t matter.  Does it?

    I’m feeling cold now.  I wish someone would give me a blanket.  The light is fading.  Or is it just a cloud blocking the sun?  I can’t tell.

    I think the bird stopped singing.  Or did it just fly away?  I can no longer smell the grass.  The aroma faded away.  So too the scent of soil has faded to nothingness. 

    I think the wind has ceased.  I can no longer hear it blowing through the trees.  I no longer see the leaves flutter on the breeze.

    There is no music playing, no angels in the sky.  It’s only me with my waning thoughts as life just fades to black.

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