Co-Pilot

My father is a tough guy on the ground--has been ever since he came home from Kuwait, Iraq--or at least that is what mom says. He avoids anything fun because he doesn’t like crowds and we can’t even go to the beach because he is too triggered. There is never a time on solid ground in which I’m not dodging eggshells everywhere I step. But when my dad is in the pilot seat of a helicopter, I am no longer just his son, I’m his copilot. Something about not feeling the weight of the world beneath his feat changes my dad from his normal cold demeanor to having an almost childlike wonder. He lets out these giggles that sound so strange, I almost turn around in my seat to see if another kid my age had snuck onto our chopper.

At fifteen, I was the youngest boy I knew with a pilot's license. Everyone always asked me questions about flying like: Can you fly to Hawaii? Can you land a helicopter on your own? Do you guys have a helicopter pad on your roof? No, no, and God, I wish. I never really cared about doing any of those things anyways. I just wanted to get in the air so that I could finally talk to my real dad.