With full plates and mouths full,
we vie for Dad’s attention.
Except for Mark, the youngest,.
who’s quietly making faces
at the different conversations.
Having barely touched his plate,
Mark asks to be excused.
It’s a radical move.
As was Dad saying yes.
Something’s soon stirring
in the boys’ room above.
Then all eyes are drawn
through the dining room window,
overlooking the bluff,
to the darkening sky,
where an airplane is crossing.
Which wouldn’t be much,
if the thing wasn’t smoldering.
Hearts jump.
Mom shrieks.
Until the tiny model plane on fire,
hung up on its wire,
stops in mid-air.
Strung from the window
to a large, old oak on the lawn.
the tiny, model fighter jet
was soon gone.
All those hours he spent building it.
Admiring it.
High-wiring it.
Just went up in flames.
As Mark quietly returns to the table.
All eyes have turned to Dad,
who seems,
at first,
not to know how to react.
But then we see it:
an almost imperceptible grin.
Mark’s scrunched shoulders soften.
“Nice job,” laughs Jim,
“Twisted, but effective.”
I can see Mark is pleased.
He’s impressed a tough crowd.
Dare I say it?
Made us proud.
Except for Mom,
who’s still holding her heart.
Dog-eared Stories by anne celano frohna 