i thought about you papa,
while i was flying last week,
miles above the ground.
and i imagined that while up there,
i was somehow closer to you,
to a heaven that i don't even believe in.
that somehow the plane was holding me up,
the way a person holds up a cellphone
in order to get better reception.
and so we were closer up there.
and you could hear my silent cries to you,
my thoughts soaked in red wine,
my eyes fixed out the window, at the clouds
my memories of you, jagged at the edges,
fragmented by time
and the worries that filled the days just before you died.
and so on that flight, on that day in mid-july,
i missed you, in a way that seemed to bring no pain.
it was the way you miss the summer in december,
because if you think hard enough about it,
you can still feel kind of warm.