Wingtip

In my mind's eye, I see you.
Your head in your hands,
sandwiched between a salesman
and a movie producer.
You are 35 and this is your first time.
What should have been a
great adventure is instead,
a heartache,
a grieving repeated.
A shot of five dollar whiskey
to calm your shaking hands,
the sound of your father's voice,
then the lift...

up

stomach dropping,
ears popping,
and your heart,
stopping.
You can hear him clearly now,
Real men don't fly...
This is not our way, you think.
Better to be behind the wheel,
on the blacktop, window cracked,
your cigarette glowing amber,
and Axle Rose singing about Patience.
You hear his voice again,
your father's, and you start
to strap yourself in,
batten down,
man up.
You start to anyway, until,
you glance out the window,
as the plane breaks through the
storm clouds, into the light,
and you forget.
You lose yourself in a halo of color,
beneath the wingtip of the plane.
It's ghostly, ethereal,
but still you snap a picture with
your fancy phone, hoping to catch it,
and send it to me,
miles away.
Do you see it?
I do.

This is for One Shot Wednesday. A weekly communal writing event. Go, read, enjoy.