In Earhart’s Shadow
By DB Leighton
In dreams she would step in Earhart’s shadow
When the moon shone full,
and dimpled her face with its light.
She slept deepest then, and from somewhere within,
those recesses of the mind
where mysteries turn into magic,
she is strapped into the cockpit of Papa’s Cessna,
adorned with his jacket,
and matching leather hat with the goggles.
He let her wear these when she was small.
But this was her dreamscape,
her rules, her reality.
In these moments the ignition would fire,
that sweet scent of promise,
as the engine kicks and thunders,
the propellers spinning ever faster,
like hell bent pinwheels most chaotic,
her head spinning as the fuselage,
lifted into some sun splashed void.
It is here she felt her body dissolve away into soaring spirit,
gravity’s laws suspended and torn asunder,
her very soul soaring above the earth in some upward spiral,
a feeling thrumming with life,
as if born and reborn from some immaculate conception.
She traveled the world,
she wove cotton candy clouds encasing the atmosphere.
In deep space she would listen to concerts of constellations,
symphonies of stars her closest companions.
She felt most at home on the airfields,
where mirages glistened like the Sahara,
on tarmac in the heat of midday.
On these same fields Papa had raised her,
but all too soon she was sent away,
to places of learning with their books and their rules.
All too often thoughts carried her back,
to the dreams of flight,
to the airfields,
to the grime and sweat that produced airborne miracles.
But the thoughts would pass with each lesson,
for these schools drummed manners,
until honed and tightened like some vise grip,
until the woman fits into a mold,
poured by others long before,
and all freedom is stripped from her in the guise of duty.
She was squired by the finest gentlemen,
and the life not her own, the cast to the mold, was nearly dry.
Until one spring day when she met him,
with the magnolias in bloom and hope all around her,
and with him the cast to the mold,
and all that came before, shattered around her.
He was gentle, unassuming,
a departure from the slickly coiffed
haberdashers who wooed her,
their ties as natty and manufactured,
as their buttoned-down personas,
dreams of a Midas fortune
lighting their eyes like slot machines.
He swept her away from all that,
and with the touch of his hand she even forgot the airfields,
forgot everything as her mind spun as it did in flight,
fuselage lifting, that fever dream so delightful.
His home was across the Atlantic,
they had promised to write but the words never arrived,
hanging in the air like one of Papa’s reworked planes,
in a holding pattern, until even that
became a forgotten promise.
It was one day some years later that Papa died.
After his funeral she headed back to the airfields,
she stood there in her dress,
her dark hair flowing in the breeze,
the sun splashing off the Cessna’s silver façade.
She reached in her purse and pulled out a letter.
For he had finally written to her.
To tell her he missed her terribly.
To tell her the distance had been too agonizing to bear.
To tell her he loved her.
Papa had forbidden her from flying on these fields,
but she had secretly trained on others,
like on some clandestine mission.
Her head raised skyward,
she asked the heavens for Papa’s forgiveness,
for the lightning was striking everywhere at once,
and she had to answer a greater call.
It was her chance to step in Earhart’s shadow,
like those moonlit nights long ago,
that led her away into the dreamscapes of her youth.
Her bags already packed into the Cessna and stored away,
she donned Papa’s leather flight jacket,
his hat with the goggles fastened tight on her head.
She climbed into Papa’s cockpit for the first time.
It was the stuff of dreams made real,
her being reborn,
her soul taking flight,
her love calling from across the Atlantic.
The ignition fired,
that sweet scent of promise as the engine caught thunder,
and somewhere in the clear sky ahead,
she could make out the faint outline of a full moon.
In the night its shine would dimple her face,
like from some deep sleep made real,
and concerts of constellations,
accompanies by symphonies of stars,
would light her way.
–DB Leighton 2021
Thanks to DB Leighton for this gorgeous poem. It’s very interesting.. and so insightful!
Stevie Wilson
Want to leave a comment or ask a question? Please send an email to stevie.wilson@LA-Story.com
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