Katy's Flight
Her memory is very selective now, but she tells me with certainty, “That is Venus. It’s a planet. It’s not a star.” A FIVE-MINUTE story
Katy’s Flight was first posted in November 2023. If you have already read it, thank you! For my newer subscribers, I do hope the love shines through. It is the most heartfelt micro-story I’ve ever written.
Katy’s Flight
A large flock of crows is overhead, flying back to where they roost every night in the live oak tree in the arroyo. Every evening a hundred or more of these sleek, glossy birds fly over our rooftop, en route from their various daytime haunts to nestle together as the sun sets. We hear their noisy squawks, a sign that night will soon fold in around us.
~~~
We sit on the back porch now, the south side of the house, sipping a cocktail in the dark, as the stars begin to emerge. My mother, Katy, at 96, is wearing her ragged red sweater, and still loves her nightly nip of gin. She spots Venus, low on the horizon, above a thin sliver of moon. Her memory is very selective now, but she tells me with certainty, “That is Venus. It’s a planet. It’s not a star.”
“Is that right?” I ask, as I do every time.
“You bet,” she nods, glad for the opportunity to teach me something.
Now we’re waiting for the first jetliner to come into view above the bay. You see, we are also on the flight path of commuter planes coming from southern destinations to land in San Jose, just 35 miles away. They fly directly over our heads at the low altitude of 12,000 ft, stacking up in tight formations during the evening hours, one behind the other, about five minutes apart. They are nearly silent, we’re aware of only the faintest hum.
“There’s one now,” she says. “You can tell that’s not a star, because it has a red light and a green light … navigational lights. And a flashing red beacon on top.” I see a certain pride in her eyes that she still knows this. “Who’s flying on that one?” she asks me.
“On that one? Let’s see ... Well, there are two wealthy Japanese businessmen sitting in first class,” I improvise. “They’ ll spend the night at the Red Lion Inn near the airport, and will be very unhappy with the room service. They have an important meeting first thing tomorrow morning to choose the new advertising campaign for their company, Sanyo. And one will forget to make a phone call to his wife.
“What’s a Sanyo?”
“It’s the name of a company that makes electronic things.”
“Ah. Like VCRs and tape recorders?”
“Something like that,” I nod.
“Why doesn’t he call his wife?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he’ll be watching baseball on TV.” We wait a few minutes quietly sipping our drinks.
“Here we go,” she points, “another jet. Who’s on this one?”
“On this one is ... Mrs. Jennings, from Pasadena. She’s sitting in the back with her two little babies, who are crying and fussing, because their ears hurt when the pressure rises in the cabin. Some of the passengers are rolling their eyes and frowning. I think poor Mrs. Jennings has just left her husband and is going to stay with her family in Santa Clara for a while until she figures out what to do with her life now.
“That’s a sad story.”
“Yes, it is.”
“You left your husband a long time ago,” she says. “ I remember you and your baby sleeping in the extra room for a couple of weeks. That was sad.”
“I know, but you helped me, Ma. We did all right. We had a great life.”
A third plane was flying over now, as silently as the others, but we can hear when the flaps are lowered. It’s a sound not unlike downshifting in a truck.
She looks at me, waiting.
“Oh, okay. On this plane are …um … two couples, friends, coming back from Las Vegas. Both of the women lost money at Keno and are still laughing about it. Their husbands won money at roulette and blackjack. One of the women went off with her friend’s husband and kissed him in a dark hallway behind a huge potted fern.”
“They’re playing with fire,” she says. “It’s dangerous.”
“Yeah, probably. Some people just need more excitement in their lives, I guess.”
“Hmmpf,” she snorts. “Okay. Let’s go out front now.”
We cross through our little house and sit out on the front steps together. It’s part of the nightly ritual. She likes to watch some of the planes after they’ve passed above our house, and are progressing over the low Santa Cruz mountains. I tell her one last story.
“On that plane, a woman is falling asleep. She kicked her shoes off under the seat, and leans her head against the cool glass of the window. She worked a full week at a large conference. Hundreds of people came to hear her speak. She made them laugh a lot. When she lands in San Jose, she’ll wait for her luggage, and then find her car in long-term parking and then drive for an hour to get to the coast. When she gets about five miles past the summit she’ll roll down the window and lean her head out to smell the fishy, salt-laden air, and know she is almost home.”
“Oh, that’s your story, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, Ma. That’s my story.” My mother is quietly flying away from me. She’s like a broken-winged bird and her flight is slowing.
“But I am retired now, Ma, remember?”
She pats my knee. “I remember lots of stuff, my sweetheart.”
In memory of Katy
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I think this one is the very best!
Great job Sharron. Reads just as well this time as it did the first. - Jim