Flash in the sky

I was working at Oxford Univ. Press 20 years ago. Editorial assistant to the woman who acquired religion, philosophy, and linguistics titles. It was a great place to work; it drew such funny, smart people. I'd get off the train in Grand Central, walk the few blocks down Madison, get out of the elevator and hear laughter.

That morning, there was no laughing; I knew something was up before I'd even left the reception area. By the time I reached my desk I'd heard that TWA 800 had blown up in the skies over Long Island, and that David, who ran the international sales department, had been on board.

I didn't really know him, but knew he had a family, and this kind of death--it was like fiction. The Press was quiet for days. There was a memorial service for David downtown at a little church. I didn't go--don't remember why. My boss did, though. That afternoon friends in the marketing department laughed coffee through their noses recounting how my boss--self-proclaimed expert in all things faith-related--sat in the front pew and stood when nobody else did, and recited clearly and without apology the lines only the priest was to say. It's not coffee-through-the-nose funny, looking back.

Let the flight through the sky end in the folding of the wings over the nest.
Let the last touch of your hands be gentle like the flower of the night.