It's sometimes hard to imagine my father's face,
even when looking at an old photograph.
In my mind's eye, he is always turning away,
arctic air 10,000 feet above the city of Reykjavik,
as far removed from the fields of Aitkin, Minnesota
as his imagination would have carried him.
I can see the smooth, unlined flesh of his neck
peeking between his military cut and Air Force collar,
can see the blue-green lights of the control panel
blinking like stars, now closer, nor farther.
This would be long before he met my mother,
before he left us, and those families which came before.
This is, you might say, a test run for leaving.
He is an apt pupil, willing to put in the long hours.
Does he spare a thought then for his older brother,
my uncle Leo, drowned, so very handsome at
the foot of Mount Fuji, his uniform weighing him down,
a birthday card written out to his sister floating
on the silent surface like a forgotten map?
Or does he think only of this -- the acceleration
and ascension, the world falling away below,
everything making more sense from this distance?
The sky trails behind him like a new signature.
He may never come down again.
