Memorial Day Weekend 2026
Before the bags were packed,
before the pedals turned,
there were forecasts showing rain,
maps open on our phones,
texts sent late into the night—
Should we leave earlier?
Book somewhere else?
Maybe change the route?
And somehow,
without ceremony,
we kept turning toward each other
instead of toward the stress.
Like we always do.
Late that morning
the tandem bike carried us west to east,
Sparta to Elroy,
Sixty seven "6-7" miles of rhythm and trust.
Two riders.
One machine.
One steady motion.
Your breath matching mine,
legs circling in unison
through tunnels cool as memory,
past fields unfolding green beneath May skies,
past strangers who became companions
for half a mile and a story.
Then came the rain—
brief, steady, somewhere west of Elroy—
just enough to darken the trail
and bead across our jackets.
We could have stopped longer.
Could have turned cautious,
waited it out beneath some overhang
watching the weather make decisions for us.
But we didn’t.
We kept riding.
Past wet gravel and dripping trees,
past the little voice that wonders
if comfort is easier than continuing.
And somewhere in that rain
we laughed again,
because even soaked sleeves and muddy tires
felt strangely beautiful together.
Another story to carry home.
Another reminder
that joy is rarely ruined by inconvenience.
One plan bent into another.
Reservations disappeared.
Roads rerouted us.
A last-minute hotel appeared
somewhere outside La Crosse
like luck waiting at the edge of dusk.
Then a college bar—
sticky floors, loud music,
young laughter ricocheting off brick walls—
and there we were,
not trying to be younger,
but suddenly feeling it anyway.
The next day, Decorah—
more miles, more laughter,
embraces that lasted longer than usual,
the kind that say
I know exactly who I’m riding through life with.
Because the tandem was never just the tandem.
It was us.
Balancing together through curves,
leaning when needed,
pulling harder when the hills arrived,
trusting the other person
even when the path disappeared ahead.
And somewhere between Sparta, Elroy,
La Crosse, and Decorah,
between rerouted plans and variable weather,
between exhaustion and joy,
we made yet another beautiful memory—
the kind built not from flawless plans,
but from continuing forward together.
And maybe that was the whole weekend.
Not perfection from the beginning,
but perfection assembled gently
from pivots, patience,
shared glances,
and choosing each other again and again.
Because the best weekends are not the ones
that go exactly as planned.
They are the ones
where love keeps adapting,
keeps laughing,
keeps pedaling—
side by side,
mile after mile.
© 2026 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
7d ago
May 27, 2026 at 2:40 PM UTC
Mother’s Day 2026
The morning stretched with open skies,
On Mother’s Day Eve, calm and bright.
We rode together through the day—
You, my son, and love’s soft light.
He led the way, so full of light,
His youthful frame in morning’s height.
We followed close, hearts keeping time,
The world behind, the day sublime.
We gathered where the bright trails meet,
With city voices, hope, and cheer.
Then downtown thrifts for him to roam—
Minneapolis drawing near.
At Omni later, dusk grew gold,
With pizza, pints, and laughter bright.
You won at cribbage, close and warm,
Good company into the night.
And when the stars rose overhead,
We met again in my warm bed.
No need for words, just touch and trust—
A kind of love that feels like us.
Next day, brunch at Hope, planned with care,
Your daughter there, with youth to share.
Your coffee steamed, your laughter warm,
Inside that calm, we found our form.
We talked like something newly grown,
A tender love not fully known.
Just waffles, smiles, and hands that knew—
A quiet joy beginning true.
That afternoon we rode as one,
The tandem gliding toward the bond.
Then home for dinner with my family—
And hearts that welcomed you inside.
And somehow love arrived this way:
Not all at once, but day by day.
Two lives once scattered by the storms,
Learning slowly to transform.
You opened space for something new,
For tangled roots and skies once blue.
For blending histories, joys, and scars,
And trusting hope beyond the dark.
Because love now is wider grown—
Not only what we’ve always known.
But making room, with patient grace,
For other children, names, and places.
And though that road may twist and bend,
With awkward starts we cannot mend,
I know the heart that you possess
Can turn confusion into rest.
Though flowers fade, this day will stay—
A perfect bloom in memory’s clay.
A ride, a laugh, a look, a kiss—
A life built slowly, full of this.
And maybe love’s most sacred art
Is stitching lives and hearts apart,
Till what once felt like yours and mine
Becomes a single, shared design.
© 2026 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
May 7
May 7, 2026 at 12:14 PM UTC
I laced your skates with steady hands,
Tied dreams into those simple strands—
Cold mornings, rinks, the sharpened air,
A quiet bond that we both shared.
On frozen ice, you learned to fall,
To rise again, to answer call—
Not just to chase a puck in play,
But build a mind that found its way.
And now on the trails where wheels hum low,
Through dirt and gravel, fast or slow,
You push beyond what feels like end,
And meet the strength you must defend.
Endurance carved in every mile,
In every ache you face a while—
Not punishment, but something more:
A forge to shape your inner core.
Because this life will test you too,
Not just in sport, but what is true—
Voices loud will claim they know,
And try to tell you where to go.
But you, my son, will pause and see,
Not bound by their certainty.
The strength you build in body and breath
Will guide your thoughts, outpace your doubt's depth.
For mental steel is earned, not given,
In climbs that feel too steep to live in,
In moments where you want to quit,
But choose instead to stand with it.
That same resolve will light your way
When truth feels hidden, bent, or gray—
You’ll question, learn, and not pretend
That altruistic answers always mend.
And in that strength, both fierce and kind,
You’ll carry more than just a mind—
You’ll carry love that does not break,
A better world for everyone's sake.
Less hate, less fear, less lines we draw,
More hearts that see a common law:
That every person, every soul,
Is worthy, equal, fully whole.
So skate, ride, learn—be bold, be wise,
Let effort sharpen how you rise.
Your strength is more than what you do—
It’s how you think, and what is true.
And I will stand beside you still,
Not to decide, but guide your will—
To raise a man both strong and fair,
Who meets the world with thought—and care.
© 2026 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Apr 14
Apr 14, 2026 at 10:09 AM UTC
I was a man of quiet rooms,
Of softened steps and shadowed blooms,
Content to let the hours pass
Like wind that slips through open grass.
I knew the comfort of alone,
The steady hush I called my own.
No need to fill the empty air,
No restless pull for someone there.
And still I keep a piece of that—
A winding road, a worn-out path,
Two wheels beneath me, sky stretched wide,
The world made small on a solitary ride.
The hum of tires, the measured breath,
A moving meditation’s depth.
No voice but wind, no hand to hold—
A kind of quiet I’ve always known.
And then you came—no sudden flame,
No thunderclap to stake a claim—
But something slow, and deep, and wide,
A turning of the inward tide.
Now silence feels a different weight,
A space that leans, that seems to wait.
The quiet bends, it calls your name,
And nothing else can sound the same.
I find I want your voice nearby,
Your presence stitched through low and high.
Not just in moments bright and rare,
But woven through the everywhere.
I want the rhythm of your days,
The ordinary, countless ways
A life is built—not grand, but true—
With shared most things between us two.
To bring you where my people are,
No distance held, no sense of far.
To watch you laugh among them all,
And feel like I have something whole.
But love, I’m learning, does not erase
The need for sky, for open space.
And I will still, some mornings, ride—
Just me, the road, the quiet side.
Not to escape what we have grown,
But to return more fully known.
To carry back, in steady breath,
A deeper calm, a softer depth.
It startles me, this quiet need—
Not born of lack, or want, or greed—
But something steady, clear, and strong:
A sense that this is where I belong.
I used to think that love would be
A thing that came, then set me free.
But this feels different—soft, yet sure—
A wish to stay, to build, endure.
And if this longing has a name,
It isn’t fire, or rush, or flame—
It’s simply this, both calm and true:
A life that holds both me—and you.
© 2026 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Apr 8
Apr 8, 2026 at 3:30 PM UTC
I signed the paper with a government issued pen,
Twenty maybe twenty-one—close enough to pretend
I understood the weight of a name in ink,
the fine print no one teaches you to read or think.
They said college paid, said you’ll be set,
said discipline, pride—no regrets.
They showed me uniforms, starched and clean,
not the dirt that settles in places unseen.
I thought it’d be drills, travel, fun stories to tell,
marching in rhythm, no problems, sleeping well.
I didn’t picture the heat in my chest,
or the sound a body makes when it loses its breath.
Guatemala—thick air, heavy and loud,
jungle pressing in like a judging crowd.
Orders came fast, no time to debate,
just a second’s decision that rewrote my fate.
There’s a moment that lives behind my eyes,
no matter how many times I try to disguise
the way it felt—too quick, too real,
how permanent a single pull of my M60 could feel.
They said I did what I had to do,
said good job, soldier, said we’re proud of you.
Pinned fancy ribbon to BDUs, shook my hand,
called it courage I didn’t understand.
A Bronze Star glinted in a quiet drawer,
but it didn’t soften the growing wore.
It didn’t answer the silent stare
of someone who isn’t alive anymore, but still there.
They told me, move on, like it’s a place you leave,
like grief’s a coat you can just unweave.
Like memory fades if you let it sit—
but memory doesn’t work like that. Not even a little bit.
It lingers in corners, it sharpens with time,
repeats itself like a broken rhyme.
Gets louder in quiet, heavier still,
a shadow that follows despite your will.
I went in thinking life would begin,
came out carrying something under my skin.
Not visible scars, no blood to show,
just a weight that refused to let me go.
And they’ll keep the records, the medals, the praise—
neatly filed in patriotic ways.
But the truth doesn’t fit in a ceremony speech:
some things you do never loosen their reach.
No one ever asked me if something was wrong or if I was OK…not even a single "mental health advocate".
© 2026 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Mar 26
Mar 26, 2026 at 8:37 AM UTC
A week before,
the house shifts into preparation mode—
not dramatic, just steady.
Counters cleared. Dusting done twice.
Laundry folded and stacked like we’re
trying to get ahead of something we can’t see.
I cook more than usual.
Label things. Stack containers.
Food becomes one less thing to think about later.
A quiet way of saying:
we’ll have enough energy left for what matters.
The morning comes early.
Still dark.
We move through it half-awake,
checking and rechecking simple things—
phone, keys, paperwork—
anything to keep our hands busy.
The drive is quiet.
Not tense exactly,
just full.
At the hospital,
time stretches in a strange way.
Every update feels too small,
every minute too long.
I sit, stand, sit again—
watching doors open that aren’t yours
until finally one is.
After,
everything becomes simple and specific.
Small tasks take on weight:
a bite of a *******
a sip of ginger ale,
adjusting pillows just right.
I line up medications,
double-check times,
write things down so nothing slips.
You move carefully.
I move with you.
Helping you sit,
stand,
turn,
ease back down again.
When I help you dress,
it’s slow, deliberate—
a shared effort more than anything else.
Back home,
we settle into a different rhythm.
The couch becomes our place.
We fold into each other—
arms, legs, blankets—
not graceful, just close.
Intertwined like pretzels,
passing time in small ways,
talking when there’s energy,
quiet when there isn’t.
Days blur a little.
Progress is measured in inches—
a little less pain,
a little more movement,
a longer stretch of sleep.
Nothing about it is easy.
There’s worry,
fatigue,
moments where everything feels heavier
than expected.
But this—
this is love.
Not the version that shows up
when everything is smooth.
Not the one that’s effortless.
The one that stays.
That cleans, prepares, waits.
That pays attention.
That shows up again the next day,
and the next.
The one that holds steady
when things are hard.
The one that doesn’t leave.
© 2026 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Mar 18
Mar 18, 2026 at 9:21 AM UTC
You Wanted This
You wanted this.
Not the tears, not the silence—
but the ending.
The open door.
The echo of footsteps leaving.
And for a while,
I stayed standing in the ruins,
still setting a place for you at a table
you’d already abandoned.
I begged the past to answer.
I folded memories like laundry,
hoping they’d still fit.
But love doesn’t live in a house
where one person’s already gone.
I didn’t utterly break us.
You just stopped building.
Stopped reaching.
And I wore the weight of it,
thinking if I loved hard enough,
you might feel it again.
You didn’t.
And that’s okay now.
Because I finally see it—
freedom wearing my own name,
a sunrise that doesn’t ask a teacher’s permission to rise.
You wanted this.
And now,
so do I.
Not because I stopped loving,
but because I started living
without waiting
for you to come back.
You can keep the deafening silence.
I’ll take the joyful freedom.
You can have the past—
I’m making room
for someone that stays and builds.
© 2026 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Mar 10
Mar 10, 2026 at 1:28 PM UTC
Let Them Have You
Don’t look for me
when the silence gets loud.
When the weight of your choices
starts caving the crowd.
Text the divorced ones
who clapped for your exit,
who fed your pride
and dressed up neglect in wisdom.
Let them hold you now—
they crowned your confusion.
You never knew me.
Not the softness beneath the scars,
not the loyalty you mistook
for silence behind doors.
You called it bravery—
leaving.
But bravery would’ve stayed.
You chose struggle in disguise,
chaos with a shiny name.
You lied about me
to feel right about you.
Or maybe you just never saw me
clearly enough to lose.
Either way—
it’s done.
I don’t miss what I survived.
I buried the past
with the version of me
you never tried to find.
Keep the emptiness you made,
I’m not patching your void.
You ran away when I needed you most,
and I'll remember the PTSD "advocacy" forever.
It’s easy to never come back when you were never truly present.
© 2025 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Mar 10
Mar 10, 2026 at 1:27 PM UTC
At Charcuterie Bar,
Balloons, a board of brie, and honey between us,
we linger over small bites and big smiles,
letting the world shrink
to the size of our table.
Thoughtful gifts, assembled with meaning.
Journal pages read softly into the dark—
old words, new warmth.
The night unfolding slow and certain,
like it was always meant to be ours.
Morning brings furry cuddles and early spring air
and later the crunch of gravel under our wheels.
Side by side,
we ride through thawing fields, pale gold light, and mud!
breathing in the promise of what’s next.
All weekend, one quiet wish—
for the miles,
for the night,
for us—
to never end.
© 2026 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Feb 16
Feb 16, 2026 at 2:56 PM UTC
Bertram in Winter
The woods are familiar,
each root and rise a memory,
Bertram singletrack winding
through seasons of my life,
family laughter still echoing
between the pines.
Yet today is different.
Snow-packed, cold, the trail hardened
under tires I once refused—
a fat bike, wide and bold,
challenging my stubborn legs
and my old declarations.
Sarah rides beside me,
light in her eyes like winter sun,
every push of the pedal
a pulse of joy I never knew
could mix with the thrill of speed
and the hush of frozen woods.
We weave through shadowed paths,
branches bowed with snow,
the scent of pine sharp and sweet,
and in each turn I feel it:
the past and present entwined,
old roots beneath new wheels,
history beneath our tires,
yet everything alive and new.
I laugh where I once hesitated,
snow spraying, wind biting,
her hand near mine,
and I think:
love, like this trail,
is both known and unknown,
and I would ride it forever
just to feel this way with her.
© 2026 Shawn Oen. All rights reserved.
Feb 4
Feb 4, 2026 at 12:00 PM UTC