Christopher Bays

Ripcords

Phantom wings crossed my window. Stukas and Messerschmidts dove from the ceiling. Mustangs hung from threads on the wall. Brave squadrons nestled under the bed. The encyclopedias for “A” and “W” were well worn. A flashlight as beacon perched on the nightstand. My room was an airfield. 

Papa was gone, fighting a war. Mama, my brother, and I were left alone near Ramstein Air Base in Germany. Locals called us “Ami”, Americans for short. On television plumes of smoke trailed from downed fighters; rockers screamed for peace. Soon I turned from planes to parachutes.

And parachutes faded to Rock ‘n’ Roll. My airfield began to disappear. Some planes fell from their threads. Others lost their wings. The beacon reverted to a flashlight. I fell asleep without streamlined shadows crossing my window.

whirling maple seeds …
papa returns
from Vietnam