I hate it when Dad
does his aeroplane impression.
I’ll be sitting there, feeling grumpy
about school or an argument with friends,
and Dad starts doing this flappy thing
with his lips – brbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrrbrbr –
I try to ignore him, but the noise
keeps going – brbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrbrrbrbr –
I tell him to stop, but the sound
gets even louder – BRBRBBBBRBBRBRBRBRBRBRRRBBR! –
and it keeps on going – BRBRBBBBRBBRBRBRBRBRBRRRBBR!!! –
and he starts running around the living room,
his lips buzzing like a crazy propeller,
his arms outstretched like dumb, stupid wings,
and maybe, just maybe, I’ll begin to laugh.
Or at least smile. And then, if I’m feeling up to it,
if the mood somehow takes me,
if I can bear to leave my troubles behind,
I’ll clamber aboard Dad’s back.
He’ll hold me in place with those big safe hands
and maybe, just maybe,
we both might fly.
Joshua Seigal
