Almost FATHER'S DAY...

Seventy-five years ago today June 18, 1945, my father was killed while piloting his small piper cub airplane. I have missed his influence in my life but have felt his spirit close at times. His death brought devastation to my mom's life as she at age 28 with no training took over the responsibility of raising their only child alone. Thirteen years later, she would marry my stepfather Earl who brought financial stability to our lives but couldn't replace my dad ever. Now as I look back on my life, I can better appreciate all that Earl tried to do to help me. Here's a poem I wrote about my father's death.

OLD AIRPORT
            Milford, Utah June 18, 1945
 Outside of town in a forgotten place,
            an empty hanger
                        stands alone.
Breezes blow through a tattered wind sock.
            Stacks of tumbleweeds
                        nestle beside sagebrush,
longing to be released from barriers,
            to fly away to freedom,
                        to unknown adventures.
 No airplanes use this empty landing strip.
            Now weeds take control
                        of runways once busy,
filled with private flying machines: 
            small Piper Cubs popular
                        during World War II
for training military pilots
            for conflict, sold publicly
                        as surplus after the war.
 Just a simple metal frame
            covered by thin canvas
                        with tandem seating.
Fuel tank in back to balance
            the engine in front
                        with a single propeller,
thought to be an efficient
            inexpensive way to promote
                        the hobby of flying.
 As a young girl not yet five,
            I remember soaring
                        with my pilot father
over this sacred sanctuary
            before he left on his last
                        final flight...without me.