After the Funeral
On the night flight back to Manhattan, I replay our last phone conversation. Hear the slurred speech from his deathbed as he asks if I’ll be coming home soon. The pain in his voice when I try, as jauntily as I can, to tell him my plans—plans both of us know won’t accommodate a face-to-face reunion.
Now, miles above the darkened ground, I practice what I might have said to him if I’d had one final chance, repeating the words like a mantra. Thank you for opening your heart to me. For loving me. Thank you . . .
the skeletal path of light
on the runway