Henry Wilkes took to flying at age 19, while my mother was still pregnant with me. I had been an accident that was followed by the mistake of their marriage. My father and mother got along swimmingly during my first years of life. I started remembering when I was three, and all I could remember were fights. Broken dishes lying in the kitchen floor, overturned hampers in the living room, shattered picture frames, all because my dad wouldn’t let Mom leave him while I was so young. I was four when he went for a flight and never came back. He had crashed into the field thirty miles from our house because he had experienced engine failure. I secretly knew in my heart that it was a suicide, for the sake of me.
I was so young that I didn’t quite understand the concept of death. I understood that Daddy’s big truck had squashed my puppy, Scooper. I understood that Mommy’s parents didn’t exist, but I didn’t understand what those things meant. So when my mom dropped to one knee with false tears in her eyes and said, “Anne Marie, Daddy went for a ride in his plane and he liked the sky so much that he decided to stay forever,” I told her to tell him that I would miss him. When I was five, I realized that he was dead because his plane couldn’t fly forever without gas. I had run down the street as far as I could. I stumbled and scraped my knee right in front of Daniel while he was riding around on his bike. He jumped off and ran over to help me up. He and his dad helped me get a band-aid and took me home to my mom, who wasn’t the least bit concerned. Daniel and I had been friends ever since.
Anne Marie Wilkes
I find it discouraging that after sixteen months there are still no comments on this, even though you were obviously seeking encouragment. So...I'm encouraging you. If you have something to say, say it.
ReplyDeleteIf you want to talk about loosing parents, writing, life, or anything else, my email is kep0017@auburn.edu.
~Kelly Parrish~