The pilot of the 747 couldn't stop thinking about the young pilot whose voice he'd heard over the radio.
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In his hotel room that evening he imagined the successful water landing.
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The torn plane sank down into the light eating water, a rope came worming down from above,
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The young pilot was choking on freezing salt, until he was scrambling into a harness,
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Until he was airborne, lifted for the first time since childhood without the womb of walls around him.
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In childhold there were hands to lift him, now there are ropes, and machines that plow water and spit sky.
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Dangling, salvaged. Limp. Live weight. Whale bait. Living meat. He's waving! Alive.
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Now upward to dry deck and cheering strangers.
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The next day when he got to the airport for his next flight, the pilot of the 747 heard about the young pilot who had been killed,
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Crashing into the ocean after his cessna lost oil pressure.
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This was the man whose voice had kept him flipping back through the channels to listen.
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The voice had kept its balance as the slow descent began.
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The strange limbo of a man who has time to think about it.
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A man who has twenty minutes until question mark.
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Until life or question mark? And the pilot of the 747 remembered the young pilots words.
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The sky against the roofs. The warm rain in summer. His girl. Her favorite dress. Blue.
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Air conditioned. She is transluscent in the light. She is soft and white.
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The children they would have someday together.
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She told him, they're always there, towing along behind us, like balloons tied to our ankles.
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They aren't captives, just clouds. Only clouds.
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He was thinking of you. Of you.
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And blue. And aren't captives, tied to our ankles
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-----------------
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Aren't captives
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| Noe Venable |
