The meteorologist was droning. Ignoring, we were always ignoring, always pretending about droning, about drones. There’ll be precip, he was saying. My stomach was aching. I was ignoring it, bending over aerial maps, mapping jet routes, black lines. We called it the upside-down wedding cake of airspace. We were filing, signing flight plans, spinning prop blades, firing engines.
I was piloting, my head burning, a flu reeling inside me. We were landing, laying over, fueling, refueling, maintaining. I was eating ice chips, chipping, chiseling history, naming navaids. Years later, we would call this camaraderie. I was hydrating, flushing. Sparky was bringing me ice. We were always bringing people, pallets, papers, paratroopers. The generals were calling it peace. We were piecing together our leave-taking.
We have to go, Mikey was saying. You take the crew bunk. We were always ready. All-volunteer force. I was sleeping, pulling winter-issue flight gear over my ears. Scrumpy was flying. We were leaving Newfoundland, always departing, checking out, not needing another night. We were arriving, always volunteering.
We were puddle jumping to Reykjavik. Climbing. The Northern Lights were wrapping streaks around the cockpit, and I was wrapping T-Squared’s green flight jacket over my eyes. A strong hand was pushing. Wake up, wake up, you’re missing it. Rut Roe was badgering. I was forgetting. We were always forgetting. Where are we? My eyes were slits. Scrumpy was yelling, Look! The cockpit glass was filling, neon, fluorescent, like phosphorescence. Painting, dipping in green ink, brushing the deep black. The world was sleeping, we were deploying, ocean-crossing.
Neat, I said. I was always agreeing.
But my body was keeping count. It was refusing. Too many partings on hot tarmacs. I was in longing, pining. Missing the way I folded into him. We were always separating, always in training. I was heading to war, to warring factions. I was multiplying myself, then dividing, into fractions. My corpus—reducing itself. Some parts leaving, some staying behind, no remainder.
My crew and I were descending, the sun rising, my fever lifting. Mikey was clearing. Scanning the skies with his eyes. I was breathing, we were all breathing. We were serving.
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