We use to fold paper planes together
By the dinner table after supper.
Once we finished we would write our deepest desires into them
And then throw them into open space.
We would watch as they glided their way
Across the plains.
We would see which one of our planes flew the farthest.
Which one of our dreams went further.
But that too
Like everything in life.
I got older
But I never grew up.
I got busy.
And you did too.
Our conversations now can be put into three categories:
Greetings, food and farewells.
Somehow, we’re both okay with that.
I sometimes pray to the same God that you say you once knew
To the one you still wear around neck
In hopes that maybe, one day,
Things will return
To how they once were.
See, ‘cause the plane that was suppose
To take me from my child to adulthood
Still hasn’t landed. Delayed
By a storm I cannot define.
And I don’t plan on ever leaving the roof
How could I? When I feel
I never wanted to get on that this flight
In the first place.
But I’m flying now.
I’m flying, Dad.
Can you hear me?
Can’t you hear me?
Of course not, there’s no reception up here.
So to help pass the time,
I decided to build one last plane.
Instead of paper, I made it out of a memory
Of what once was.
Even though its wings are missing,
Most days, that doesn’t stop it from trying to take flight.