The Bird and the Wyrm

Do you remember the day we met?

I can still picture the airport with its insect-eyes, glass ceiling and smooth marble floors - still feel sun beating down from above even as I froze in the airconditioned hall - still taste the musk of summer in my lungs.

And, of course, hear the voices and voices and voices clamoring around me from the throngs of people.

I still don’t know for sure how I spotted you that day, spotted your bleached blond hair and sharp eyes. You had on your usual thick rimmed glasses with its beaded strap and your instrument case slung over your back.

You know I think it was fate, and I know you hate that word, but I’m still going to say it was that.

It’s more romantic that way.

Then the moment ended - you disappeared in the sea of strange faces, and I got called back to the present.

"Did you have a good flight?"

I turned at the familiar voice, suddenly strange without the static of the phone or the metallic clip of an internet connection.

"Welcome back to Pearl City, Misha."

"Dad!"