Three empty chairs—
the flight line whispers quiet now,
tools in hand hesitate,
turn slower, doubt shadows every glance.
You know the odds
but knowing isn’t preparation;
the names announced, the casual voice
breaking something inside, forever.
Memories surface—
port drinks, salty jokes,
brief words through a duty window,
a promise left unfulfilled.
The silent question lingers
in metal inspected, cables checked—
hands trembling, wondering
if attention slipped
when attention mattered most.
Everyone says,
“You couldn’t have stopped it,”
but doubt is louder, clearer,
always replaying what-ifs.
And still,
planes launch again,
fear pushed aside
by necessity, by trust
frayed but intact,
in each other,
in routines.
Some wounds
never close fully,
just ache less often,
reminding you
of friendships, laughter,
sunglasses indoors
on mornings too bright
for anyone to bear.
What remains are memories—
goofy grins, country songs,
and the quiet salute,
Fair Winds and Following Seas,
given softly,
into the empty blue.
Originally written in 2007
