She kissed him goodbye as he left once again, she knew she'd get through it once more, but she would long for him so many sleepless nights. Every moment marked with deliberations of him, broken by the fate of the war, but touched by the hand of determination. A river delicately moving, a shape of a timeless love, and a dimly glowing lamp she wrote a telegraph reminding him of her wedding ring size.
She'd wait for him to fly over their house on the airbase and she has always told me he would tip his wings for her when he'd fly over her. She'd watch as his P-51 disappeared into the deep blue sky, and in the valance of their existence she'd wonder where he would be going this time. Following suit, the others, all tipping their wings; their wives saluting as they flew by, wondering if they'd return.
She never completely unpacked, as she knew they would soon be in another state, but for now she had time to waste until his return. The ocean was like a symphony to survive an ageless wait, and though she knew she married a pilot in the air force, her undying patience would deem courageous in this external fight.
She told me they called him Jiggs, but to her he was a treasured soul; an unordinary gem and with him carried an enduring love and a place to come home.
When he was alive, he told me he named his plane 'The Preacher's Kid' because my grandma was the daughter of a preacher. Flying above the world, written on the side of his plane was a piece of his heart and a life he knew he'd find his way to again. But the war was rampant, a furious decade in an uncontrolled storm. But we would someday prevail, and settled deep in the despair was hope that someday they could set their wings down for good.
But for me, my grandpa always had wings. I never knew my grandpa as an air force pilot, or as a soldier in WWII, but as my best friend. I also knew my grandpa as being a part of The Greatest Generation of all time. And when we buried himamong asea of white at Fort Logan, we laid him next to the rest of his generation, leaving only a few who still exist. It has been 5 years this October since he died, but apparitions of his spirit still find their way into my life. There hasn't been a day that goes by that his essence isn't felt at some point during my day.
And when the night is dark and the sky a silent lonely, I close my eyes and for a fleeting moment I can sense him standing behind me; his hand resting on my shoulder; he is quiet but he is there. And though I know he can't stay, I grasp to every fleeting second of that moment. But I know I will feel his presence again one day when the time has passed and my hair becomes a silver grey.
And in the stillness of the night I feel his wings take off once again.
In Loving Memory of James J. Sears 1925-2003