Dad opens a second pair of aviators
and hands them to me in a silent
paternal pact. The silence is smoke
so familiar that I breathe easy. Before
the wordlessness can form pangs
of regret, the Spitfire makes it angelic
approach. The entire crowd silences.
Dad recites the Spitfire’s specifications
in hallowed tones. The Gettysburg Address
received like reverence. That nose cone
punching through scud clouds—a paragon
of symmetry. Propellers a hummingbird blur.
The Rolls-Royce supercharger engine rising,
lifting everyone in the key of nostalgia. Sure,
the Hurricane downed more Axis planes, but
the Spitfire rescued men from their accursed
despair with the grace of two elliptical wings.
The Spitfire’s flyby drowns out the coded
chatter between every gathered father and son.
But I see Dad’s profile reflected in my aviators.