Jet Fuel

My dad was a pilot, or rather, is one. A great one. He no longer collects a regular paycheck for the profession, but it’s a creed that never quite leaves the winged disciple of the skies, like the aroma of jet fuel that still clings to his wardrobe. I smell it in the midst of every fatherly embrace, and I’m whisked away to grease-floored hangars, surrounded on all sides by miraculous flying machines. The world seemed limitless back then, unguarded by the folly of Icarus. Time weighs everything down, but my dad is still my hero, and also my reminder that lofty things are not impossible things.