For the Writer's Island Prompt: Flight
by Edward S. Gault
It had to have been around eleven
When my my father came in
And told me that grandpa had died.
He was only sixty-three,
So it didn't seem possible.
The shock disabled my tear ducts.
Images began to come-
The quilt work landscapes I would see
From the window of his little piper plane,
As I helped him to steer it
Over the horizon.
He would not need a plane
To see those things now.
When I came back, I saw the blurred image
Of my white knuckled hands
Pulling at the bed frame.