Last Flight, Last Prayer (Never Forget)
I’m flying home for the last time. It’s cold on the plane and I can’t seem to get warm. I’m thinking of all the times that I have flown somewhere in great anticipation – a reunion, vacation, even a business trip – and I long for those times again.
It seems so dark. The sensation of hitting turbulence doesn’t elicit the same fears from me that it used to. I’m a dead man anyway. It doesn’t really matter if the wings came off. That wouldn’t really change the reality of the situation.
I always hate these long flights over the ocean, and this one is no different. Endless, numbing hours with nothing to do. There is never enough to read, and I used to finish the book I was reading before the half way point of the flight. It's much too dark to read now, and I don't have a book anyway.
There are usually crying babies on planes, which used to annoy me. I actually wish I could hear one now. I wish I could hear something besides the whine of the jets and the wind rushing over the fuselage.
Mom will be waiting when I get there. Mom and Dad and my sister and brother and probably a few of my friends. But I’m not looking forward to seeing them this time. It just won’t be the same after all that’s happened. I don’t like to watch people cry, especially when they’re crying about me.
It’s so cold and dark. I’m tired of being trapped in here and wish I could move, but I’m numb. I can’t seem to get the events of the last few days out of my head.
There were so many RPG’s coming up that it looked like the Fourth of July. I knew we were going to get hit, and I’d been hit before, but my guardian angel always had my back. Not this time. I just remember the sound and the fire and the screams. And then the silence. The silence was the worst thing of all.
And the silence continues.
I always said I would give everything I had, and I did. But now everybody else has to pick up the pieces without me. I hope they can do it. That’s the last thing I remember praying – “God, help them get through this.”
And now I’m flying back home in this box. I knew deep in my gut somehow that I wouldn’t make it out alive. I would do it all again if I could, but I can’t. But there are others who will - maybe even my sons.
My prayer now has changed.
Now I pray “God, don’t let them forget me. No matter how they feel about what I’ve done or why I did it, don’t let them forget me.”