Airplane Mode

If I were free, what would I write?

Fly away!, he said, Free as a bird!

I flapped my arms to carry the joke.

I was about to board a plane.

But the joke isn't funny unless we know I'll be back.

I've a foot fix'd in Oakland.

My heart beats a little harder, wondering:

Did I get the joke?

Is the resolution of ambiguity centered on the certainty

that even by driving me to the airport

to sit in a box that is thrown by air and fire

to a far away land of ports

that he is not sending me away?

Or, even so, is he sending me like one might

send the far end of a rubber band elsewhere,

temporarily, before the band returns to itself?

How much of it was a joke?

I hear the memory of his voice whispering in my mind

the same way he said,

quiet as an exhale, the first time I left,

to me,

to himself,

to no one in particular:

"I just want to see you again."

And I locked it in my heart like a promise:

I'll be back. 

He needs me to be free, so that coming back means anything.

Prepare for takeoff - 

Before setting my phone to airplane mode, I text:

Miss you already

His reply sneaks in, just as I disconnect:

I will see you again!

His last message, trusting me to keep him an honest man.