Jerry touched down the plane. Smog lines carved a path of black smoke marking the plane’s descent. A squeaky noisy emitted as the plane bounced up and down, decreasing it’s speed.
The plane itself was a beauty. Two white-washed wings connected to a slim white fuselage marked by a red stripe. The bottom folded out three wheels, one on each wing and one in the middle. Written on top of the red stripe on the plane was, in black cursive, “Passing Years”.
A door opened on the plane, and a pair of automatic stairs leapt onto the runway. Jerry stepped out, wearing dark sunglasses and the standard leather jacket with jeans. Nearly swaggering he walked down the steps, heavy footsteps on each stair.
“Went out for another run?” asked a fellow pilot, extremely plain-looking fellow with a exuberant personality. The man was blonde, wearing flannel and jeans working on the underbelly of his own plane, a glider.
“Yeah Rick, I gotta tell you, each time I go up its like heaven. Up there in the clouds, I feel like a young man, not these worldly aches or knowledge to weigh me down.” replied Jerry, feeling particularly resentful of his 50+ status now that he was grounded.
“Yah, I gotta say, for a mid-life crisis you chose the right hobby” joked Rick, wiping some engine oil off on his jeans.
People at the runway always made jokes to Jerry, which he accepted with humorous smiles. The only man to start flying at the age of 40 he had put in more flight time more and more recently as he aged. Maybe it was his wife, his spare time, hell even his retirement could be the cause, he always considered the possibilities.
Back at home he walked around. He had the home remodeled three times, each time worse than the last. He knocked his feet on the wood floors, they could have them now since the kids weren’t their to ruin them. Along his hallway hung pictures of their kids growing up. Jerry walked by and imagined each of his three kids growing in each picture as he passed by them.
His wife had receded to a more feminine pastime. She would shop all day, gossip among the other ladies in the neighborhood, in fact she spent nearly all day doing that. There was always a new dress to get, always some impossibly young clothing that looked absolutely horrid on anyone except a teenager.
Ah, he thought, the good ol’ days were long and past, he had time, relaxation and except for some minor back troubles and achy legs, he was happy. But he wasn’t.
When he was young, he looked back on those days, the only time he could seem to remember having fun, was never. He remembered those sick dreary days, the ones where it rained, where the house was kept stifling hot. He remembered the sore throats, the runny noses, the absolute heat of everything despite it being below 58 degrees. Those days he felt envious of his health as if every time he was healthy he didn’t take it for granted. Strange as it was, he never thought about his enjoyment during those happy times, and left his mind surprisingly obscure as to memories.
Youth, wasted on the young, he murmured to himself. That saying was more true than anything he had every remembered. He looked back at his past hobbies, trivial pursuits to his interests now. A golf set sat next to a wall, gathering dust, poor looking shabby clubs, that were once kept oiled, cleaned and sparkly. Tennis rackets, soccer balls, footballs, all those things his kids once loved now rolled in his closet, neglected.
He always even looked at those long hours at the workplace. Every project was a challenge, the rushing eager interns and the jaded veterans of the paper battlefield. A old hand in his last days he worked disenchanted, a prize horse turned mule. He never had enough Sundays. The only good memory he really had were those nonexistent Sundays he had to spend with his kids, and now the kids were gone and every week was a free day.
That next morning Rick saw Jerry walking out to his plane at 5:00.
“Damn, Jer, you come here every morning at five?”
“Nah, why you here anyway?” Pilot lingo tended to rub off on people, after a while everyone in the sky spoke improper grammar.
“Just installing a new gas tank, I’m so damn eager I swear I’m a kid at Christmastime with that baby. So why you here?”
“Finding my Sundays”
“Crazy bastard, it’s Monday and we both know it, you always pull some crazy answer out of that mouth of yours. Well I find my Sundays right after Saturday, pssh, like anyone could get anything more out of Sunday’s than a good start on Monday’s work” ranted Rick, with wild gesticulations with a wrench.
“Someday you’ll get it Rick, we all chase our Sundays”
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Submission Name: Finding Sunday
