Never trust radars — they may be instruments of detection, but only of approximation. The red blip was a mark sent, not a mark at. Never appearing again. To cope, the hope of blinking along its intended path. A red blip, stationary.
Landing area, a tank holding thick morning smog: airplane tails sticking out, going around. There was nowhere to reside but this cramped space; nowhere to go but fly. Heavy shadows speed away. Runway lights blink outside on a Saturday morning.
Memories from childhood: a plane puncturing a cloud, sewing a new white thread it carried. The sky a continuous fabric until the sight of an emery bag. Needles don’t necessarily make stitches.
“Where’s Daddy?” Starting tonight, the only answer: point your finger skyward whenever a whirr or a star made of blinking red and blue passes by. Blue and red, blue and red, tell the child the daddy is still travelling.
Another fabric: The delicate skin of the ocean. Transparent layers on top of one another, reflect deep blue. Waves barely visible from 40,000 feet above now seem like ruffled seams. It does not only iron itself out, it washes all its dirt away.
Only a needle moving clockwise on an empty screen. Some needles break when mending patchwork.
after hearing tonight’s (heart)breaking news
25 March 2014, 12:18 AM