Content warnings - plane crash and near drowning

 

Nestled in his palm, her son hands her the star

which had slipped from its constellation.

“How come they never stay?”

he pouts at the ceiling,

his face peeking out from his blankets.

Naucrate reaches out and places the plastic star

against a backdrop of deep blue

among a few other dozen

before sitting on the bed.

Naucrate hums, “I know! If they fall,

it means Dad is coming back

down to Earth.”

Her son stares up in wonder

and his voice drops to a whisper,

“Can I be a pilot too?”

Naucrate smiles, though her heart tolls.

“It’s late, you’ll see him in the morning.”

His eyes close with her kiss, and she tucks him in

by pulling the bed sheet up again to his chin.

Turning off the light, the stars glow

faintly dim in the toy-littered bedroom.

And a single sentence spills from her lips,

though she wished it didn’t,

as she pulls the door tight,

“You’ll fly soon anyway.”

 

And from there it’s like a dream,

but Naucrate doesn’t sleep.

She ignores the string of messages

from the bully that is her boss,

and lights candles to keep her company.

Though they would go,

at least it was something that she could control.

And by the time her husband gets home,

the flames are burning low.

While wax drips, the door clicks open

letting Daedalus and the night in.

His arms embrace her in greeting,

and she leans into him, rubbing her eyes.

“I don’t think he can wait any longer.”

“That’s good,” Daedalus replies. “We’ll drive tomorrow,

take the plane out of the hangar.”

Naucrate looks to the side,

“Great. Have you had dinner?”

“Yeah, just a bite at the airport,” he yawns.

 

With that said, the two go to lie in bed,

and Daedalus slumbers, his busy day done

while Naucrate knows hers has just begun.

The darkness presses down,

and her breath quickens.

Still, her dread gnaws as dawn creeps closer

and her mind begins to pace.

Morning will bring their migration

to the cottage and she’ll watch,

like a cuckoo to a clock,

knowing time has caught up.

Clear skies are conspiring against her,

and with no thunder or high winds,

Naucrate can’t make excuses:

The floatplane would take flight.

 

She remembers unbidden now

the yellow wings of Patridge

as it whistled down through the air,

her nephew guiding it to the pier.

Then, before it could return to the nest

the plane took a too sharp left,

and Naucrate had watched from the dock,

helpless as wings met water.

The propeller sputtered

tick tick ticking as the family raced by boat,

like vultures to a carcass,

to get the distant plane back in their clutches.

Black smoke rose while the plane sank,

and only after two minutes, a lifetime

numbered by the drums of Naucrate’s heart,

did her nephew escape by the gods’ fate.

And Naucrate wants to turn to Daedalus,

beg him not to go,

but her son’s smile in her head holds her tongue

while her chest beats again.

So, she squeezes her eyes and prays

for some semblance of sleep,

knowing the plane isn’t broken

it hasn’t been in years, and

that it's made of metal, not feathers.

 

Then, they leave.

She distracts herself for the weekend,

failing to read a book or two while

frequently monitoring the northern forecast.

Daedalus sends her a message, but she doesn’t reply.

She thinks, tick, tick, tick—

“No,” she squares her shoulders, " it’ll be fine.”

She turns off her phone,

and decides to invite her friends over to drink some wine.

 

They discuss everything from A-list actors,

to the best crackers dips, and oh yes, politics.

Through all of it, Naucrate’s eyes fall

to the flowers on the table where there

is a centerpiece of orchids, lilies,

and drooping daffodils.

She’s been meaning to plant them in her garden,

but that would mean exposing them

to the winter frost or pest infestations.

Despite her best efforts with water and indoor shelter,

her flowers were still wilting.

Laughter rings out, but Naucrate misses her cue

and when silence follows, she looks up

to see sympathetic grimaces from her friends.

She cringes, wanting to run, but

one says, after a moment,

“You know, it’s easier to love them a distance,

otherwise, you’re listless and just drifting as they go.”

“That’s true," her other friend said.

“Better to stand on the shore

with the last of the blooms.

Spring will come again,

and the sun will return.”

Naucrate pauses.

“Sun? Son? And what of mine?” she cries.

“Is it not a mother's job to divine

the weather from time to time to see

if it’ll be fine for her son to fly?

Daedalus has said Patridge is fixed, but I got a text

that he’ll let our son sit up front

to try the controls tomorrow,

oh God, I wish it would rain

so they wouldn’t have to take that plane. Why,

why must mothers be left behind?”

 

Her two friends share a look,

but Naucrate doesn’t see their faces.

She thumbs the flowers, and she knows

they can’t be saved.

She hears from beside her,

“Flowers will still be wild

even if they’re rooted in vases.”

 

Still, much later that night,

Naucrate lays in her son’s bed

motionless while her heart

tick, tick, ticks.

She looks up.

Tendrils of sunrise are sneaking in the window

and she sees on the ceiling,

that the green stars are fading.

But there one is dangling,

suspended between a backdrop of deep blue

and an orange daybreak.

She holds her breath waiting,

for her star to fall,

for her son, Icarus, to come home.