The beautiful thing about memory is that it lets imagination fill in the blank spaces.
Mike
If you were to watch him sitting quietly in his favorite chair, looking out the window, you might think he's just old, and that's something old folks do, and you would be so wrong. It's 1942, and we are at war. He proudly wore the uniform of an army pilot, chasing death and saying prayers, lots of them. He flew a P-40, a single-prop fighter plane fast for its time, able to maneuver quickly but sometimes hit by enemy fire that punched holes in the skin. He observed that, back on the ground with thanks, it wasn't worse, and he lived once more to fly.
If you were to watch him, you'd see his closed eyes twitch a little, and his fingers occasionally tap the arm of his chair like he was at the controls of his plane, lining up his targets and firing fatal shots at enemy planes as they slammed into the ocean like a cigarette being snuffed out in a glass of water. You'd see his head tilt from side to side as he did a barrel roll, earning another painted star on the fuselage. You'd hear a slight sigh as he managed a smile, landing to the cheers of his fellow pilots and the knowledge that another mission was completed.
If you were to watch him in his recliner, which serves as his cockpit in his dreams, you'd see him high in the sky, where the cold was numbing, and his vision, scanning in all directions, was like an owl's. You'd see him touching the photo of his one true love waiting back home, smudged by his touch on every take off and landing and everything in between. If you were to watch him, you wouldn't see just an old man; you'd see a hero who dared to give up until every enemy plane crashed in balls of flame. Walk away now and leave him with his dreams and memories, and let him fly once more straight into the heavens.
If you were to watch him, you'd see his closed eyes twitch a little, and his fingers occasionally tap the arm of his chair like he was at the controls of his plane, lining up his targets and firing fatal shots at enemy planes as they slammed into the ocean like a cigarette being snuffed out in a glass of water. You'd see his head tilt from side to side as he did a barrel roll, earning another painted star on the fuselage. You'd hear a slight sigh as he managed a smile, landing to the cheers of his fellow pilots and the knowledge that another mission was completed.
If you were to watch him in his recliner, which serves as his cockpit in his dreams, you'd see him high in the sky, where the cold was numbing, and his vision, scanning in all directions, was like an owl's. You'd see him touching the photo of his one true love waiting back home, smudged by his touch on every take off and landing and everything in between. If you were to watch him, you wouldn't see just an old man; you'd see a hero who dared to give up until every enemy plane crashed in balls of flame. Walk away now and leave him with his dreams and memories, and let him fly once more straight into the heavens.
Mike 2026 
Mike 2026
Something to think about for sure.
ReplyDeleteWe need to record more senior memories for future generations. We'll done!