The Navigator

My father soared on silver wings through the great war,
navigating his crew home in the dark through the gift of reading stars.
They were his anchor in a life set emotionally adrift too soon.
The bombs that they dropped on the dim landscape below
made little gremlin patterns as they exploded,
arms and legs thrown wide in a plea for mercy.

He dipped and circled around his wife and children,
never fully engaging them, seeing them as yet another battle to be won.
The bombs he dropped on us fell like lead from his mouth,
out of control, but ultimately forgiven,
for he was flying blind without a chart

I held him as he lay dying, and felt his anger and confusion over
a mission left unaccomplished.
And as I look at my own life, I ask myself if I truly navigate it,
or am I a mere passenger on this flight, afraid to look down
and see the emotional wreckage I leave behind…