A Thousand Words

Author's Note: This piece is the reason I revived my Writing.com account. I wrote in one December while on break. It turned out rather well, I think.

first place in Round 4 of:

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A Thousand Words

         I’d had to work late that night; there were few people left in the building, and I was not happy about it. It had just finished raining, and it was time for me to walk outside and lower the flag for the night. Such occurrences were nothing new; one could mark time by the thunderstorms of that summer. I definitely did not expect to stand in stunned silence for several minutes while doing so.

         If you’ve never seen a very large and very flat field of concrete following a good rain, you’d be as surprised as I was at the quality of the mirror it makes. It was the Midwest. Flat prairies to the horizon, with no pesky hills or mountains to spoil the view. The setting sun shone dazzling in the background; no, two suns, one above the horizon, one below. Two crimson disks seizing the eye, staring back. Two remnants of storm’s spent fury, each brewing hues of orange and purple. The main column of clouds towered on the left, a whirl of green and blue at its core in the fading light.

         The picture became the more surreal for what was sitting on the concrete before me—rows of aircraft, silent and alone in the gathering dusk. Though their landing gear was down, the wheels chocked, their canopies raised, they were not on the ground. For this one brief moment, they were home. An entire fleet, forty plus, soaring aloft in silent, unbroken formation. Their wheels were on the ground, but they were flying.

         These were planes that had been in service for half a century, old soldiers that refused to die. They were fading away; younger, quieter, more economical models slowly took their places on the flightline. These relics were being flown to the boneyard, to sit and bake in the desert sun until they fell apart. But not yet. Not tonight.

         As I stood staring, I was struck by the notion that the planes were dreaming. I was intruding on a sacred moment. They had gathered to fly that night, as they had that day. But now, no pilots, no rules, they were free. A solemn procession hung in the sky, a private show for an audience of one.

         I do not carry a camera with me, and never before have I regretted the fact, until that day. I basked in the view, enamored. A thought struck me: do such things happen daily, with no one to enjoy them? The “tree falls in the woods” dilemma. If there is no witness, did it happen? Natural beauty with the power to knock you back on your heels and make you think was a rare thing. To have it thrust through the midst of tedium was a pleasant shock.

         As the initial awe wore off, I could see the sun slipping closer to its counterpart. The clouds shed their brilliant oranges and a deep purple descended from on high, sinking ever lower. The brightest, bravest stars began to blink above, bashfully enjoying the scene for themselves. I felt a tinge of loss at the change, wondering how much time I had left.

         It was at this moment that I turned and went back inside, nearly running in my haste to share the glory before it was too late. I found someone, a familiar, faceless coworker. I do not remember what I said, but I urged them to look upon the spectacle I had discovered. They humored me, glancing out their office window. They merely made a generic, bland statement and went back about their business.

         I had to restrain myself. “How can you not be affected by that?” I wanted to shout. “How can you call yourself a human being and not feel as profoundly as I do about this? Have you no soul?” I refrained, though it grated. I wrote them off in turn and returned outside to enjoy what little remained.

         The sun had joined its twin, one oblong oval vanishing from view. The stars had told their friends as well, more of them joining me. The clouds formed drapes of velvet, only the barest hint of crimson lining their bases. I wondered if the aircraft were sad, their time together nearly spent. Already I could see the lines in the concrete again. Soon, their sky would be taken from them.

         “Remember us!” I could hear them say, their voices entreating me, pleading. “We who have served faithfully and long, remember us! We deserve better than to go quietly into the night. We deserve better than to be discarded and forgotten! Even if it be only you—remember us!”

         Then the sun sank below Earth’s rim, stealing the vestiges of light with it. The mirror broke; the magic faded. The reflection dimmed, leaving only the dark silhouettes of aircraft and equipment. Once more, they were grounded, silent, inert, dead. Once more they slept, tucking their dreams away, hiding their hopes. The empty feeling of loss deepened, as if I had buried a thing of beauty, locked it away to never be seen again. I reluctantly returned to my task, and lowered the flag slowly as I took it down. It seemed the most fitting tribute I could perform for what had passed.

         I have been back after similar storms, with a camera, but the scene has never repeated. The planes are gone, now. They have all retired to their desert pasture, laid to a rest long overdue. It has been over a year since then, and still I can see them in my mind’s eye. Still I stand witness to their quiet vigil, the air laden with pride and sorrow. The flag whips above me, honoring the veterans before it. The wind whispers as it whisks away the grandeur in front of me. I write to salvage the memory, to rekindle the thoughts the imagery inspired. I remember, and I wonder what other scenes in life I might have missed—because I didn’t work late.