They dug me from islands and continents, melted me, assembled me. My wings from Japan, my control from Britain, my rudder from Australia. And you, where did they assemble you?
You called me She. You laughed sometimes. Other times you sang, “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah.” When I hummed, you said, Hello.
You flew me soft. So soft, I forgot. Forgot I was a wide body. A carbon-fiber polymer. I thought I was air. How
could I spark? I had never felt fire. As I burned
you did not call me She. You did not laugh. You did not sing. When I tried to hum, you said nothing. When you said
Climb, I climbed. When you said Dive, I dove. When you put me on autopilot, I flew. I flew for you through my own smoke
while my engines ran dry. While I shook and fell. While my wings left my control. Until we were no longer air.
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