Remember when we watched the planes fly out?
It was on the last weekend when the world
seemed normal, as if normal was something
we ever could define. Normal to me was your
father, brother, you, and me; a love story in
which I didn’t need much else. We took
those Sundays and sometimes Saturdays to
watch the planes take flight, and then we
drove out to the Dairy Queen in the same
city where your dad and I fell into a love
some say should not have been, but so it
flourished like the first sign of sun melting
the waterfall and someone says, “The
waterfall should stay frozen.” And,
darling, you were, and are, the kind
to melt the ice around the waterfall,
and watch the mist rise to the sky.
I remember when we watched the planes
take off, and we commented on the larger
ones that looked like they held one
hundred or one hundred fifty in such a
time before we knew a world of “masks”
and “six feet.” I remember how you
sometimes didn’t eat your fries, but you
had no problem with the ice cream
when we drove to the Dairy Queen.
The time will come soon when I remember
a different one year anniversary of flight.
I knew you were gone even when I pumped
your chest and the paramedic pushed in breath.
What I wish I could’ve seen, angel, was the first
glitter of gold in your wings. Yes, forgive me,
I know. The wings were purple and pink without
too much sparkle because even as an angel I
hear you say, “They itch me.”
But, I wonder if
you remember me
when you flew up above
Charlotte Douglas on a Wednesday night?
By Rebecca T. Dickinson
Corrie's Season 