the hour of soft light...

I was three years old and crying because I had to pee…so my dad turned the Cessna around and taxied us back to the airplane hangar, even though he was already in the process of taking off. Since my mother never flew with us, my sister must’ve got his attention. So he turned back. At the price of plane fuel and in spite a filed flight plan, this accommodation was made…this concession.  It really isn’t much of a story, but my dad retells it again…how he turned that plane around. I know the point of the story even if he doesn’t…and why he brings it up on special occasions, like today, Father’s Day. His voice drifts over with the memory…then he comes back to our phone conversation…asks me again if I remember this. I don’t. I can recall throwing up orange pop all over my blue chiffon church dress…how I…

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