There is a picture of my father
in front of his airplane
a jaunty little pose, one foot up
on the tire of his little two-seater,
hands almost-on-hips,
elbow cocked.　

A smirky little smile lets you know
that there is a twinkle in his eye you can’t see
behind those square sunglasses.　

He has more hair than I remember,
and it’s darker,
showing up dark in the black-and-white,
instead of salt and pepper or silver like I knew.　

He never took me up in that plane,
He gave up flying around the time that I was born.
I wish that I could ask him what it was like,
Or, even better,
Go up with him just once,
looking down and seeing houses like buttons, people like ants,
not a worry in sight.

© by Rebecca Morse.
Used with the author’s permission.