I remember boarding a plane with my dad bounding 
down the aisle ahead of him to claim our seats.
	"Found ‘em," I'd shout.
	"Not so loud, " he'd say.

	I always demanded the window seat, and got it
 with no argument on his part.  And as the plane
 started down the runway, I'd stare out my 
window in calm amazement, waiting for that 
slightly queasy moment when the back wheels 
lifted off the ground.
	"Feel that, dad?" I'd ask.
	"Yep, I feel it." he'd reply.

	And, you know, a couple years later I bet he 
really did feel it–-that forever moment between life 
and death that carries the soul away, leaving nothing 
but a cold empty shell–-like God cracking open a cashew 
and eating its rich insides...

	And now, ten years later, the pain less 
poignant, but the memory every bit as crystal clear, 
I think of my dad, every time I fly–

	("Feel that dad?"

And no reply.)
	–at that moment when the back wheels lift off 
the ground.

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