Behold the biplane. On Summer Sundays we hear it before we see it. Remodeled and remade to look like something that never existed. The originals were never so shiny. The originals were never so red. They leaked oil; they leaked water.
Because of this, because they slowly broke to bits in flight, we sometimes felt them before we saw them. We sometimes smelled them before we felt them. The way we smell tractors or biker bars in our future.
Today, our biplane banks to the left. It pretends a predictable pattern. Circling. Cutting through the air. Slick, sharp, secure.
Look closer and you’ll notice. It’s like us. Like confidence and love. Insecure. It’s sloppy. It slips and sloshes in space. The engine picks up and it drops. It hums, then it gurgles.
And this is flight. And this is us. And this is me.