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The road leading to Owensboro was long and winding, twisting and turning through the sprawling countryside. Matt had never ventured this far from Kansas City before, and certainly never to a place like Owensboro. As a Hispanic man, he felt out of place, like a stranger in a strange land.

As he drove, the landscape around him began to change, the sprawling fields giving way to dense forests and towering hills. Matt's heart raced as he realized just how isolated and alone he truly was. This was not the welcoming, bustling town he had imagined in his mind.

When he finally arrived in Owensboro, it was like stepping into a different world. The town was small, with old buildings and empty streets. There was a sense of abandonment to the place, as if the people had all left and never returned. Matt parked his car and stepped out, feeling the weight of his suitcase in his hand.

As he made his way through the town, Matt couldn't help but notice the way people looked at him. Their eyes were filled with suspicion and fear, and Matt couldn't help but feel like an outsider. He had never felt so alone in his entire life.

Matt had come to Owensboro to roll out a new product for his company, but he quickly realized that the people of this town were not interested in what he had to offer. They were set in their ways, suspicious of outsiders, and not willing to change. Matt felt like he was fighting a losing battle, like a lone soldier against an army of foes.

As he lay in his hotel bed at night, Matt could hear strange noises coming from outside. The wind howled and the trees creaked, like the town itself was alive and plotting against him. He felt like he was being watched, like there were eyes on him at all times.

On the final day of his trip, Matt was packing his bags when he heard a knock at the door. He opened it to find an old woman standing there, her eyes dark and menacing.

"Leave this town," she whispered, her voice filled with malice. "You do not belong here."

Matt didn't need to be told twice. He packed his bags and left Owensboro, eager to leave the town and its people behind. As he drove away, he couldn't help but feel like he had narrowly escaped something far more sinister than he could have ever imagined.

Pull it

Oh, harken to my tale of woe,

Of Scott, son of Don, and his great woe.

For Don, his father, lay upon death's door,

With liver and kidneys failed, and life no more.

The doctors did all they could, with skill and care,

But alas, 'twas all in vain, they could not repair.

And so they turned to Scott, with heavy heart,

To decide if they should keep life's flame aglow or part.

Oh, what a burden to lay upon a son,

To choose to keep his father's spirit or let it run.

For life and death, they are not in man's hand,

But still he must make the choice, take the stand.

To keep the body breathing, machines were all employed,

To keep Don's heart beating, artificial means deployed.

But was it truly life, that mere machine-made breath,

Or just a mockery of life, a crueler form of death?

Scott pondered long and hard, his heart in strife,

For to let his father go was to end his life.

But then he thought of Don, and how he'd want to be,

Free from pain and suffering, his soul set free.

And so, with heavy heart and tear-stained face,

Scott made the choice, to let his father find his place.

He told the doctors to end their life-supporting care,

And Don, at last, could breathe the natural air.

Three days passed, and Don's spirit took its leave,

But Scott knew that his father was at peace, free from any grief.

For in the end, it was not machines that kept Don alive,

But the love and memories shared, that forever shall survive.

Happy Birthday

I hear talking as I walk through the back door into the laundry area. I stand quietly, nobody heard me, so I listen - it is the normal chatter about old times. There is lots of laughing, but is it really funny? I look down as I close the door close, the door is hitting the jam - I push the door towards the hinges and it easily shuts. I make a mental note to fix it later.

“Hey, he finally made it!” Mom smiles from her recliner. The queen receiving visitors and gifts. 

“Like I would miss your birthday!?” I walk across the living room, lean down give her a kiss on the cheek while dropping a card in her lap. 

“Oh, you didn’t have to give me anything.” This is a complete lie as we all know she keeps a mental inventory or checklist of gifts and visits - don’t dare miss one. She plays the game, acting surprised to receive a card.

“Well then, I’ll just take it back.” It is an old game as I act like I will retrieve the card and everybody has a good laugh - they all know.

“We didn’t think you were coming?” Melissa motions towards me from the dining room table where she is gathered with our cousins from mom’s sister. 

“Nah, it all worked out and here I am.” I find a chair next to her, the only sibling I truly love. My sister, my protect, my proxy mom growing up - the only person in the family that I have ever asked for advice or told the truth.

“So, did you meet the new grandson?” Mom dollars from her seat behind us, it seems Becky told her the reason for my being tardy.

“Yeah, we finally met him.” I glare at Melissa and quickly soften realizing I never told her it was a secret.

“Oh, what is his name?” Aunt Jean seems to scream from the couch.

“They named him, well I guess the momma named him, Jackson.” I smile, remembering the little bundle I had in my arms less than an hour ago. He was now 3 months old, but we had just met him due to ongoing dispute between my son and the baby momma. Yes, not a traditional approach to having a child, or maybe it is now, as mother and father are not together and apparently do not even get along.

“Ah, that seems to be a popular name these days.” My sister addresses the table, mentioning her husband’s nephew naming his son the same and then a coworker with a son named Jackson as well.

“Show us the little fella, I’m sure you have plenty of pictures.” My cousin Laura calls for me to produce my phone and share pictures of the little guy.

Instinctively, my hand moves towards the phone in my pocket, but then I stop it. I look around the room, remembering the things said about my first grandson, my son and my wife over the years. I see cousin Jackie whose son professed it was against nature to mix races and there is uncle Bobby who loved to drop the N word and told me they are inferior.

The room spins, I stand up and walk to the kitchen and grab a glass and fill with water. I see Aunt Jolene across the room through the glass as I drink. She had expressed her dismay with having “coloreds” in her family, ending with “can you imagine?” She had vowed to disown her daughter when the daughter tried to date a black man. It was great when the daughter adopted a girl from Africa many years later.

And there is Jean next to Jolene, who professed that black people stink so many years ago in her very own home. It was her sumJean after riding the city bus one day. I lower the glass and set it in the sink, spotting my brother Jeff on the couch. 

He always wears a hat and today it is a glowing red with MAGA across it. He once told me racism doesn’t exist because he has never seen it followed by a long critique of black athletes acting uppity when speaking about about police brutality. My own story of scary situation with local police and my son does not sway his opinion.

Finally, there is mom who told me to find somebody of my own race so many years ago when I first met my wife. More than once, she told me to find a good white girl and quit messing with “those people.” She likes to call my wife “classy” and “well spoken” - this from a woman who did not finish the 10th grade. 

I turn and lean back against the counter and in fact do pull out my phone, checking for messages before returning to my pocket.

“Wait, you forgot to show us the pictures!” My cousin Dee yells from the dining room. I can see her through the opening in front of the sink in the short wall separating kitchen and dining room.

“Nah, sorry, I don’t have any, they are all on grandma’s phone.” I shrug and make a face that I think shows my forgetfulness even though I now there are plenty of new pictures of the little one on my phone plus nobody even asks about the other grandson - his shadow every weekend, his number one priority these days.

“Geez, really? What kind of grandparent doesn’t have pictures?!” Aunt Jean is beside herself and she turns and continues whatever conversation she was having

Everyone returns to their talking as I stand in the kitchen. I watch the faces contort and laugh and share old stories, but I realize I do not belong there - I never have and I should not have shown up. I had the excuse, I had a way out with the time with the new baby, but I made it all worked and ultimately showed up. 

It may be harsh - these people may be my family, but they know nothing about me and they are not people I would ever hang around. I think of the many gatherings at my house where none of them showed except for mom. I then go back two years, I feel the anger rise, and I am standing at dad’s funeral where only my siblings had shown. I pull the phone from my pocket again and feign reading an important message. I drop it back in my pocket and walk back to mom’s throne.

“Hey, sorry, but I have to go, her car stopped again so I need to go get her and get it going again.” I raise my hands to express my disappointment and convey there is nothing I can do.

“Oh no, well I understand. I appreciate you coming.” She leans forward and I plant another kiss. 

I back away slowly and exchange pleasantries with the rest and give Melissa a genuine hug as he whispers for me to be good. I want to tightly wrap my arms around her and not let go, I want her to protect me like she did when I was little. I want her to go with me, but I know this is where she belongs and it is I who does not belong.

I return to the backdoor to leave, push it back and pull it open as I now know it’s problem - I stare at the hinge again, searching my car in my mind for a screwdriver that could be used to fix it, but I know the car has nothing. Unlike my father, I never carry tools with me - something I always regret. I stand between the door and the storm door to depart when I hear it.

“You know she probably just texted him because she doesn’t want him here. She has his claws in him and keeps him from me. I just don’t know what he sees in her, well her kind, they are just different.” Mom announces to the room and there is no disagreement.

The anger subsides and I am now embarrassed, feel like a fool for ever showing up. I gently close the door, hoping nobody hears and jog to my car down the street. I sit with the a/c blowing, thinking I will cry but there is nothing, there is nothing left here for me.

Expectations

I sit at my desk and lean back in the Ikea chair - a good purchase and has not fallen apart like I predicted. I replay a voicemail from a cousin informing me of mom's birthday party this weekend. To my right I see the birthday card that I keep forgetting to send. I pick it up, rereading, nice message but not sure I believe it. Does that really matter? Drop the card, give a gift and check it off the list. A family joke is mom keeps a scorecard - a checklist of who does what for her. There is a picture of dad holding me on a nearby shelf. Regardless of the stories about dad, I miss him. It was a covid funeral, so abrupt, sterile and restrained. I feel the anger stir within me, most of those invited to the upcoming birthday party never reached out offering any type of condolence - no card, no call, no text, no Facebook message, no appearance at the funeral home, nothing. Has it ever been easier to send a message with so many options? It bothered me then and it bothers me now, a slight I cannot shake. Sure, he was not the best person, but they did not know him or even seen the man in probably 30 years. Am I a good person? Are they? The anger continues to rise and in one swipe, a stack of books flies across the room, hitting the door.

"Everything okay down there?" My wife yells from upstairs.

"Yep!"

I sigh, stand up and collect the books, returning them to the desk. My aunt died recently, and I was there offering sympathy and assistance. Did I want to? Did it matter? I prepare the birthday card and walk to the mailbox, flip the flag up, deciding I will not attend the party. I will spend a different day with mom.

Transport

My first reaction when listening to jazz is the musicians are amazing. I am always amazed at the way music transports me to another time and place, a memory - some good, some bad. A few years ago, I worked on a project that required me to be in Minneapolis every other week. While there, I would listen to this local jazz station in the car and whenever the opportunity came up which was often since I was usually alone. It introduced me to a lot of artists that were never on my radar. One cold, wintry morning (minus 7 F) as I drove my rental car to the office, the jazz filled in the interior of the car as I followed the curvy road leading to the interstate just as I hit a patch of ice - the car spun for what seemed like ten minutes but in reality only a few seconds, it spun twice before catching dry pavement and I was miraculously facing the right direction and no traffic to be seen. I continued on my way as the jazz played, never missed a beat with work. Also, the music makes me think of The Talented Mister Ripley movie where Jude Law's character loves and plays jazz while Ripley fakes it - one of my favorite books and movies. Finally, the music returns me to my early twenties with a self-professed jazz aficionado for a coworker. He was a complete snob on the subject. I could never determine if he actually knew his stuff or was just a blowhard as I did not really care of have the time to pretend I did, but such snobs can ruin anything - do you have to express your love of jazz to enjoy this performance? Be a professional writer to enjoy a book? There are so many good things in the world, just sit back and enjoy.

Promises

 I climbed the stairs following the receptionist's directions, going to my left at the top and straight down the hallway. The knot in my stomach was familiar, I was always nervous on the first day of an assignment. A guy named Joe, the lead, was going to be with me in the meeting. I stood in the doorway - a cold, white, sterile room with space age inspired furniture, the norm for all new offices.

"Are you Tony?" A tall balding guy with black rectangle glasses and gray suit greeted me.

" Joe?" I shook the outstretched hand.

"Bingo, take a seat. They are on their way, this is a straightforward project so should be a quick discussion." His gaze returned to his laptop.

The room quickly filled and small talk about weekends commenced - I always hated these discussions, like I really cared about their personal lives? There were introductions followed by Joe diving into the details and making glorious promises on my capabilities. I interrupted at one point and questioned his assertions on could be done - he gave me a side eyed glare and never stopped talking. The meeting ended, the clients scattered and again it was the two of us.

"Don't ever question me in front of a client again." Joe gently shut the door and turned towards me.

"Well, don't make glorious promises that I, not you, have to fulfill."

"Do you think this is easy?"

"Telling the truth?"

"I thought you knew what you were doing?" He plopped in his seat and spun back to me.

"I do, but apparently you do not." Yes, I was this arrogant in my youth.

"Do you really think they'll remember everything I promised? I was just closing the deal." He removed his glasses and wiped his face.

The conversation escalated to a shouting match eventually interrupted by the receptionist. We went our separate ways and ultimately the client was happy with everything. We worked together a lot over the next few years and we are friends to this day. It is funny to think we became friends after that initial encounter. It was if we felt each other out that day.

Rock

 I pulled down the attic opening, unfolding the creaky, old stairs before ascending into the darkness. I stood on the top step in complete darkness, feeling the space around me for the light cord - why didn't I bring a flashlight? The dark space illuminates as I pull the cord. Remnants of a life lived cover the attic space - Christmas trees, Halloween decorations, old shelving, vacuum cleaner, suitcases and one particular case that house old memories. With mom gone to the nursing home, everything needed to be cleared out. I grabbed the familiar blue old sewing box by it's clear handle and dropped it through the opening to the hallway floor below, gently descending the stairs.

I lean against the wall and flip the latch, revealing stacks of papers and other keepsakes. I leaf through the papers, creations from my school days - there is the writing exercises from third grade, wow my handwriting was legible back then. There is a stack of mother's day and other holiday cards which I always signed with my full name - weird. I shuffle through the old report cards and progress reports - always A's with the teachers saying I am a quiet student who is a blessing to have in class. Why didn't anybody realize a kid should not be that good? I shudder remembering how mom always patted me on the head, calling me an old soul and her rock. The grades plummet here and there in eleventh grade, ah yes I remember vividly realizing or thinking I could do anything I wanted, when really I just wanted the attention yet nobody ever noticed. My heart rate increases as the waves of panic wash over me. I want to run, but there is so much work to do and I can't let her down.