From the Douglas in the Blue Skies

The horse chestnut tree is swaying gently in the breeze. Cars speed by, windows down to enjoy the warmth of the day. Their white noise pervades the air as they rush by the river on whose bridge humans accumulate — and in the distance, a deep rumbling emerges from the propellers of an aircraft.

The metallic body shines in its low approach, looking like a ballerina as it banks and turns, wings level and bent again. It fulfills a dance through the sky, not limited by lanes or roads it should stick to. A free bird, a rule-breaker, a kaleidoscope.

The airplane looks unlike any of the airliners that take to the skies these days, so much slower and smaller. Its wingtips end abruptly, not in a smooth up-curve, and the fuselage appears stitched together.

Oh, this Douglas sounds so different from the jets taking politicians and voyagers across the globe. It’s a witness of time, from the neoclassical church it passes to the 1960s apartment complexes that withstand the tugs of a history long cursed.

Curious eyes reach for the skies, searching for the Douglas. Where is it? Ah, yes, it’s right there, just one nautical mile away.

Funny how the sailors and captains of the sea decided to apply the same laws to the sky — there’s a unison between the two, after all. The ocean is as turbulent as the jet stream flowing high in the atmosphere, invisible waves in every breath we draw… and every little movement might be the one to unleash the Butterfly effect.

A month from now, a tsunami hits the coast of Japan.

And the Douglas’ wave turbulence may be the decisive factor in starting it.

The thundering gets louder as the aircraft passes our heads. Witnesses applaud as children lose their caps and paper napkins fly away in the ensuing storm. Unbothered, unfazed, the Douglas makes a turn to the closest airfield.

As glorious as the spectacle was, it ended like a thunderbolt: quick and with power. Time is a fleeting thing.

I realize my silk scarf has been carried away by the Douglas’ wind. A little girl approaches me with the scarf in her hands. She must be thinking how soft it is. She hands me my flowered scarf, her eyes glittering in the Sun.

“That was amazing!” she says, her voice full of joy. Truly.

Time passes, but oh, how its effects thrive within our memories. A passing airplane, a joyful grin, the gratitude of strangers.

Sparrows sing a song, one of them sitting in the horse chestnut tree, and the people who assembled on the bridge slowly disperse. For at least a moment, we shared a common history; now they take different roads.

And where is that memory going? Will it travel to museums and churches with inquisitive tourists? Will it sit in the cabins of airliners where a child tells their parents of their dream to one day fly an airplane? Will it remain in the heads of residents breathing in the evening air on their balconies?

Wherever it goes, a memory will never be lost. Time will never be forgotten.