Chemtrails

I lay in the grass, blades tickling the back of my ears and the nape of my neck. The sky is streaked with cirrus clouds, wispy and waif-like. Something stands out among them, though—a little airplane. It travels softly through the sky. It is slow and without care. Though it seems to last forever—a tiny snail slugging its way across the open sidewalk—if you missed it passing by you might have never known it was there.

Since the accident, I never thought anyone would truly know me again. If he wasn’t there to translate and interpret me, who could understand me? I wasn’t the easiest to get along even before him. How could anyone stand me now?

Ben was a pilot. He knew from a young age that flying was his calling. Of course, when he was much younger he thought he’d be using his own wings to fly. Once he grew into knowing that wasn’t a possibility, airplane piloting was the next best thing. I never had feelings like that—strong, sure ones that led you, guided you, told you exactly where to go and who to be. Ben was always sure, and in the rare moments he wasn’t, he’d pretend to be. I looked up to him when he was on the ground with me and kept looking up when he took off in his planes. He inspired me. My parents, teachers, peers—they never knew how to capture my attention or how to dig into my soul. Ben did.

All it took was one of those planes to crash at the work of his hands and all anyone could talk about was the tragedy. The unfairness. The insanity. It was never about my big brother anymore and his freeness and his confidence and his fulfillment of his prophecy. It was about the danger, the sadness, the aching hole he left in the world. And I felt it. If anyone felt the emptiness of his absence, I did. But that didn’t change the fact that his legacy was only a cautionary tale.

After his passing, I thought long and hard about who he was. He was a pilot. He was not a victim. If he had to pick a way to go, flying would have been it. Then, I thought long and hard about who I was. Without Ben I was withdrawn and sour and grasping for anyone to remember him correctly. To not miss what he was in lieu of remembering how he stopped being that. To not let his death overshadow his life. But who was I before? Who was I when he was here?

I was loyal, a learner, a lover, a little sister. I dared to dream and longed to have something I wanted like Ben wanted flying. Other than that, I didn’t have strong opinions—there weren’t many things I loved, there weren't many things I feared. My thinking, however, did lead me to one new fear. Not lasting, not making a mark, not being remembered as me. If Ben—wonderful, fantastic, dream-achieving Ben—couldn’t blaze his trail, was so simply pushed aside as a victim of circumstance, how would I be remembered? I didn’t know.

It was my goal from that day on to build my legacy. Leave behind a life worth talking about, even if it meant not going out with a bang. Ben swung for the moon and landed among the stars. He went big and it stuck. My goal would be the simple, the small. And each step of the way, I would bring my brother’s life along, like dropping a trail of breadcrumbs for anyone to find and follow.

The grass needs cutting. I’m starting to lose myself within it. I sit up and lean against the granite of the headstone instead, never taking my eyes off of the plane as I readjust. I watch it pass intently, let the distant buzzing fill my ears until they ring. The commercial planes are bigger. They navigate the sky faster and cross the expanse in an instant. But this little airplane, once it finally passes through, leaves a chemtrail. I watch the solid plume until it too breaks up and fades out of sight, indiscernible from the clouds.