As soon as I speak I know
I have become her abusive mother.
While she curses and cries,
I imagine I am the pilot
who ditched his Airbus
into the Hudson after he
checked out all other options.
And as we are about to hit
the river, she catches herself,
pulls out of the dive,
and thanks me for caring enough
to maintain my cool and listen
when she knows she is losing
control. And she tells me how
I make her feel safe enough
to show her rage—
by starting and ending
on time, returning her calls,
always making sure she pays.
But what she considers caring,
I consider routine,
like a pre-flight checklist
when the captain reviews
each system and works the flaps,
the physics of flight
as simple as the power of wind
rushing over wings.
