Because somewhere in me is still the little boy ~ who wants to kick the can down the road, ~ and write on walls, ~ and hitch rides on the tailgates of trucks~ ~ and look up to stare at a jet streaking across the sky ~

And somewhere in me is the still the “go-to-Hell” pilot, ~ in the “go to Hell” hat, ~ flinging an aircraft down boundless halls of space and talking with hands for airplanes, ~ and reliving ‘high flares’ and extended trail — and reaching out to “touch the face of God,” and laughing at those who are tied to Earth ~ and still staring up at jets in the sky.

And somewhere in me is Chief Joseph and Crazy Horse, who philosophize on the here and hereafter in a language I understand, ~ that of kindness, ~ of respect, ~ of loyalty, ~ of honor ~ and of the beauty of Life itself, ~ and of a jet streaking through the sky.

And deep inside me there is that uncompromising realist who knows that this is all a temrribly temporary gift, ~ and that sometime ~ perhaps in this next second, ~ be it the side of a mountain, ~ the slam of a stall in the Final Turn, ~ or that massive grasp of a giant’s hand on a faltering heart — this will all come to an end too soon. And when that time comes, if there is one thing to remember, it will be that sweet memory that transcends them all;

~ of the little boy,
~ of the Go-to-Heller,
~ the Philosopher,
~ the Realist,
~ it will be the ineffably beautiful picture,

…of a jet, streaking gracefully across the sky…

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