He can't wait. Once the youngest child finishes school... home. Oh, he'll return every couple of months to visit the oldest child going to college in New York, but home...finally, home.
Will you fly planes there? I ask.
A grin, with a greater wing span than the bald eagles I once saw on a Minnesota lake or the jets I take to visit my father.
To fly in air and light that grew your heart... finally...
I say, let me take of picture of your cowboy boots before you go.
"Oh, I don't wear these when I fly," he laughs, but steps into take-off anyway.
Home.
**
Related Posts:
Flying High Now
Sunday Memories: Lost In The Dangling Conversation, A Childhood Joy Found
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