My son. So strong, so brave. So eager to follow in my footsteps.
Sometimes at night when he watched the stars from the crow's nest of the Aurora I would glide alongside the airship and pretend like he knew I was there. Sometimes I would purposefully slip into his dreams. "Matt," I'd tell him, "You and I, we're lighter than air." When he flew to high I kept his hands steady and breath in his lungs. I'd reassure him when he was landlocked with thoughts of flight and the sky.
I like to think that sometimes he could feel my presence- and I like to think that he knew no fear, no vertigo because of that- that he knew, even if he fell, I'd be there to catch him. From the air above him I watched as he dueled pirates and flew on his own wings, and then one day he sailed up beyond my reach, into the stars above even I; and now I cannot find my son. Has he returned to Earth? I know neither where he was going nor if he's ever coming back.
But I know my son, and I know the sky is his home as it is mine. If ever he falls, the air will be there to catch him and lend to him its wings.