haibun (Alexander's father)
We fly home on the second day of the year, so early that it's still dark. The young man sitting in front of me twists round. "How old?" From my lap, Nora grins at him. "Eight months." "I have a boy that old -- nine months." He flexes his bicep: Over a heart with green wings is the name Alexander, and the boy's birth date. The tattoo is fresh, still inflamed, skin pink all around it. It would be warm to the touch.
"I'm going to Basic," he says. "Me and him." Another lad seated just across the aisle. The plane is small, half-empty. There are many soldiers flying, heading back to the war after Christmas leave. They are sleeping while they can. The plane takes off.
"We're going to be mechanics," Alexander's father says. "Both of us." The other man waves. He does not have the hands of a mechanic. They are short-fingered and wide across the palm, softly dimpled at the knuckles.
The sun is coming up. Alexander's father turns and presses his nose against the window. "I've never flown before," he says.
pink as a cheek
the new snow
Today's Friday Haiku is actually a haibun -- from my notebook, where I have a haibun sequence in progress.
"I'm going to Basic," he says. "Me and him." Another lad seated just across the aisle. The plane is small, half-empty. There are many soldiers flying, heading back to the war after Christmas leave. They are sleeping while they can. The plane takes off.
"We're going to be mechanics," Alexander's father says. "Both of us." The other man waves. He does not have the hands of a mechanic. They are short-fingered and wide across the palm, softly dimpled at the knuckles.
The sun is coming up. Alexander's father turns and presses his nose against the window. "I've never flown before," he says.
pink as a cheek
the new snow
Today's Friday Haiku is actually a haibun -- from my notebook, where I have a haibun sequence in progress.