---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “Where Icarus Went” Down in the Dirt v216 (2/24) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology The Limits of Imagination the Down in the Dirt January - April 2024 issues collection book		get the 422 page January - April 2024 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Skyscrapers

Peter J. Stavros

    “When we were kids, we used to call those skyscrapers,” Sadie says, focusing her attention above, an expanse of crisp cerulean, devoid of clouds but marred by crisscrossed markings from the puffy white plumes of smoke and steam trailing the jets on their way to and from the airport. “What with how they scrape the sky like that.” Sadie nods at the planes and the billowing lines they leave, some at perfect right angles as if the angels are arranging elaborate games of tic-tac-toe in heaven.
    We are sitting out back on the patio, a lazy Saturday, sharing a bottle of wine, a sweet Muscadine we bought in Pigeon Forge when we were there for our anniversary, appreciating this surprising spell of unseasonably mild temperatures for Louisville in mid-February, sunny and sixtyish. I think of this as fake spring since surely winter isn’t done with us, and the groundhog agrees.
    “Are you curious,” Sadie goes on, “when you see the skyscrapers, where those planes are heading, or where they’ve been, and who’s on them—what kind of lives those people lead, who they love, who they’ve lost, what gets them going in the morning?”
    “Sometimes,” I say, nonchalant, feeling the effects of imbibing on an empty stomach, peaceful and light as if I could float to the sky, and unlike Sadie, I’m more attuned to what’s on the ground than in the air. “Uh-huh.”
    Sadie hesitates, clearly unconvinced but not allowing me to derail her.
    “Business trips, or vacations,” Sadie continues after another sip of wine and a satisfied swallow, before her demeanor drastically drops, “or to a funeral.” She casts an anxious glance, her cheeks flushed, probably from both the wine and whatever is coursing through her mind. “Even if you do get to fly for free to a funeral, that’s an awful waste of a plane ride if you ask me.” Sadie takes a beat to stare into her tumbler, the cheap plastic kind we use outside because we don’t risk our good glasses falling off this wrought iron table that no longer stands straight and breaking on the bricks. “I’d rather take a skyscraper someplace else,” she resumes, “someplace I might by happy not to return from—like the beach.”
    I agree with Sadie on that because, as I tell her, “A beach is a much better place to fly to than a funeral any day.”
    Sadie squints and repeats “funeral” under her breath, then grows silent—we both do. I find myself staring at this baby rabbit that’s been hanging around our yard, eating the clover that has begun to sprout while keeping a watchful eye on us. I ponder where its parents are, if this baby rabbit is lost or if rabbits are born and then left to fend for themselves. That makes me sad in some way, and lonely, until Sadie breaks this quiet.
    “Do you ever wonder how you’re gonna live?” Sadie asks.
    “What’s that?” I say, as the baby rabbit sprints away, as if on cue. “What do you mean?”
    “Well ...” Sadie shifts position in her chaise lounge, which suggests that this is something she’s been dwelling on and it’s about to come out. “People always wonder how they’re gonna die—”
    “They do?” I ask, not intending to interrupt but it just happens. “What people? Who?”
    “Just ... people,” Sadie says, a bit of frustration in her voice. “I don’t know who exactly. I don’t have names. But people, in general, are so concerned with how they’re going to die.”
    “Uh ...” I start to speak then decide to let Sadie finish.
    “In their sleep, drift off and be gone.” She pauses, to contemplate, and to take another drink. “Or suddenly, like a car wreck, or a heart attack.” She exhales, a sort of gasp. “Or, God forbid, a lingering illness, like that girl from work—poor soul.”
    “I, um ...” I offer, unable to contain it, to urge Sadie along, “but anyway, you were saying.”
    “I was saying, does anyone ever wonder how they’re gonna live?” Sadie asks, back on track, “because that’s the important part—don’t you think? Once you die, you’re gone, so why bother worrying about that. But to live,” Sadie turns to me, those searching blue eyes, “to live, well, that takes, you know, a lifetime.”
    I tell Sadie I know, even while I don’t entirely understand what she’s getting at. Though I am ashamed to admit I have, on occasion, considered my own eventual demise—usually during those sleepless nights when I awake in a cold sweat and for a brief few seconds that seem endless I struggle to figure out where I am and how I got here, and not just here in our bed, but here in my existence. But to wonder how I’m going to live, aside from the basics—food, shelter, money, relationships—that’s a question I’ve never given much thought. Now I will, no doubt. Yet just then, something more urgent enters my head.
    “Contrails,” I blurt out. “That’s what those are called—the skyscrapers. They’re contrails.” I suddenly remember from a night of trivia at the sad bar down the street.
    Sadie looks at me, neither surprised nor impressed—I am both with myself—but more just vacant, like I’m drastically missing the point. To make up for that, if I can, I add, and it’s true, “I’m gonna live with you—that’s the only plan I have.”
    Sadie remains still, and gives me the onceover, and concedes, reluctantly, “nice recovery there, buddy,” with a subtle grin, the edges of her mouth, those lips, turned ever so slightly upward.
    I let out a contented sigh, and we finish our wine, and spend the rest of the afternoon admiring the skyscrapers.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...