Model Aeroplanes

---

My desk is a mess. I haven't been into work for three days and my books and laptop have been replaced by flattened sheets of newspaper and tiny pots of acrylic paint.

The envelope that came in this morning’s post is at the side of the desk, but I haven’t opened it. I can’t open it.

Instead, I pop open a pot of acrylic paint and lean over my model in the harsh white light of my desk lamp. It’s late — 00:12 — and too soon to start painting yet, but I start anyway. Maybe I want you to chide me. But you don’t, not this time.

“Come on gramps,” I mumble. “Tell me I'm doing it wrong. Tell me I have to give the glue longer to dry.”

The newspaper crinkles as I lean forward. The air stinks of chemical paint.

I can’t see you, but I know your arms are crossed — in that brown aviator jacket you never take off. Maybe you’re looking to the skies now whilst I work on the model.

I dip my brush in the water.

You were always looking to the skies. Remember when I was a kid and you used to take me to your allotment on the weekends? I’d run through the bean poles, chasing butterflies and you’d tell me one day I too could fly.

Up there, child. Look to the skies.

But somehow, I never found the time. I’m twenty-five now, but still not a single flying lesson under my belt. Always too busy, never enough minutes to spare. So we made model aeroplanes instead. In snatches of time on Sunday afternoons when I wasn’t working or shopping or working or sleeping.

Spitfires, bi-planes, boeing 747s, all lined up on shelves at the side of the room — perfectly glued, perfectly painted — next to the photo of us at the allotment. I’m distracted by a toy. You’re looking to the skies.

I slick the first line of paint across our new model — a Felixstowe seaplane.

It's a poor replacement for flying, isn’t it?

And we almost made it too. I booked the course a month ago. But then you fell ill. I thought you’d be fine. I thought we’d be opening the tickets together now, putting on matching jackets. I didn’t realise your lungs were weak. Mum says you didn’t want to burden me — I was so busy.

I rest my paintbrush in the pot of water. 04:03

You’re still looking to the skies. But you can’t help it now, can you?

I reach for the envelope. It's crisp and smooth, like hospital sheets.

I should have found the time.

I could have found the time.

And even though I know it’s too late now, that’s why I send an email to my boss saying I quit. That’s why I shrug on my aviator jacket and go to the airfield to meet my instructor. Our instructor.

Finally, with your photo tucked in my pocket, I look to the skies.