When I was six my father gave me a toy airplane. It wasn't just any plane, but a magical contraption formed of Styrofoam, plastic, and, of course, batteries. There wasn't anything like it in my humble hometown. Dad bought it in St. Louis, a faraway land filled with fanciful toys and baseball heroes. The battery pack, shaped like a flashlight, fit neatly in my sticky, ice cream-stained hand. With the casual flip of a switch, the plane's blue propeller would whirl like my dog's tail at dinner time. Unlike my dog, however, the plane would begin to twitch nervously, then gradually roll, and finally pitch itself into the air above my head. A tiny red cable tethered the plane to the battery pack &emdash; and through this cable my spirits would soar with those featherweight wings of foam.

I hadn't felt such excitement since I'd poured a jar of honey on the neighbor's cat. It was a simple device, but then at six I was no Renaissance man. I was easily impressed. This plain white airplane with the blue plastic propeller was my ticket to another realm where all things were possible. All bedtimes, teachers, homework, dark basements, and playground bullies &emdash; all the demons of my child's mind &emdash; were suspended by the battery-powered pulse of that blue prop. Except for school, the plane never left my side.

Then it happened. As adults, we know that bad things can happen even though we pray at night, eat our vegetables and wash behind our ears. Our life experiences have taught us that the flawless symmetry of justice is a more noble concept than actual reality. At six you fear only the bogeyman and Aunt Sophie's chicken pot pie. The facts are coldly simple: As we returned home from an ice cream expedition, I exited the car and proceeded to run down the driveway with the battery pack held high and the plane taking flight. For a reason beyond my comprehension (then and now), the plane suddenly went into a suicide spiral toward my feet. The crash was spectacular, more gut wrenching than any catastrophe provided by Hollywood minds. Tangled in my red canvas sneakers, the wings snapped and the body crunched as my forward momentum crushed (literally) my daydreams. Even before I came to a stop the tears started to roll.

Stoicism doesn't come easy at six. I stopped running, looking down at the white Styrofoam fragments that once formed my plane. My grief proved too intense. Turning away, my view of the world moist and smeared with tears, I started to run down the block. With each stride I screamed, "No!" as if this childlike mantra could return my toy to wholeness.

My father had exited the car behind me and witnessed the tragic flight. As I disappeared down the street he knelt beside my plane, carefully picking up the pieces. I'm not sure how he did it, but once inside the house he pieced the remaining fragments together as good as any archaeologist working on an ancient Roman vase. Using enough brown masking tape to trim the entire house for painting, he patched together the body and wings. It gave the plane an experienced, battle-ready appearance, an effect he enhanced by drawing Air Force symbols on the tape.

I've forgotten how far I ran, or just when I stopped terrorizing the neighborhood with my audible anguish. I do remember walking up to our door, shoulders dragging the concrete, eyes cherry tomatoes, nose sniffling to regain the air expended in grief. I opened the screen door and walked in. In the middle of the living room sat my plane, wounded but intact. Dad sat on the couch with the red battery pack. He hit the switch and the propeller started to spin, the thickness of the carpet keeping the plane from rolling down the runways of my imagination.

"It's not as good as new," he said, "but you and your plane have survived a tough battle."

After examining the Air Force markings, I carefully picked up the plane. Dad handed me the battery pack, with the solemn understanding of a minister passing out communion wafers. Walking slowly, very slowly, out the door, I placed the plane on the driveway. With a click of the switch it started to roll, shuddering from side to side on bent wheels, struggling to lift broken wings &emdash; and my spirit &emdash; into the air. That plane never flew as high, or as easily, the weight of the tape slowing its progress. But it worked.

I couldn't call this event a "happy" ending. My plane was restored, true enough, but the pain of my inability to stop its destruction, or provide for its reconstruction, remained. Of course, I just knew it hurt. I felt like the fuselage of my plane, put back together but not quite healed.

I've felt that empty ache as an adult. Stimulated by another's pain, my mind returned to the vivid memories of that shattered plane. It was my father who brought back that sensation. At the age of fifty-three, a rare disease left him unable to breathe on his own. A once healthy body was fragmented, held together by doctors, nurses, machines, and medications. It was my turn to try to pick up the pieces, to encourage, console, to offer hope. And yet, we both knew things would never be the same. In the intensive-care waiting room I reflected on the hard lessons taught by a caring father and a little white plane, with a blue propeller and a red battery pack.

And when Dad died, I remembered how my plane struggled to fly against the weight of that brown tape, which hid the scars that would never heal.

Stephen Walden
Community