When I wandered around your old home base, a place I’d seen for the first time in my life, I made a note of the number of things which reminded me of you.
The street names that were your name.
Pilots. Airplanes. Propellers.
Rocks soaring out of the earth floor, as red as sunset rays.
Doctors everywhere I looked.
Flowers on old trees opening after the cold.
I met a man on the monorail at the airport who told me to look out for the artwork in the least likely places: 5280 tiny whirling blades in the tunnel, fluttering as we passed by, working hard in half-obscurity. Mountains that hold palaces, places no one knows about except the locals.
Height. Altitude. Pressure. Gold.
I wanted to tell you as much as I could, so much. The more I felt your presence around me, the more I realized that all I was really seeing around me were bold signs of your absence.
At that moment I knew: you weren’t ever going to be back.
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