Thursday, April 17, 2008

Flying High

For the Writer's Island Prompt: Flight

Airplane Last 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.

Copyright 2008





2 comments:

tumblewords said...

Poignant piece. Tender and touching.

indicaspecies said...

White knuckled hands screams out the intensity of the emotions.
Excellent!