I’ve begun studying Flash Fiction. This piece grew out of a workshop in which we were learning the braid structure, one strain of which is reportage, and the other, more lyrical. I was surprised when what emerged was a tribute to my friend, Maureen Carkeek who died summer of 2023.

FLIGHT

The plane was full. We were all headed for the same destination.

The rules governing short term rentals were in place, but completely

ignored by the city council. Megamansions sprung up like ugly

toadstools, littering the lake front.

When she said, “Fasten your seatbelts,” I thought of you and the way

the land around your house was eroding — slipping into Lake Michigan.

I wished you had a belt of your own — a way to anchor the unruly soil

from the sussurating waves.

In the end, there was nothing we could do. People were vacating the town

and it became something it wasn’t. Once the snow flew, the streets

were empty as a metal drum.

I asked my realtor about your beach house, which had a for sale sign

in front of it. She said, “I’m sorry dear, your friend died in January.”

I looked around the crowded cabin at my fellow passengers. The heavy plane

lifted off the tarmac, scattering wishes like glitter.

I couldn’t help but wonder if I’d see you, once we landed.