Death is the wild
notes from a hospice garden
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Hello. This post is about Death & Birds.
When I was 20, I sat in a coffee shop eavesdropping on the phone call of a man at the table next to me. When he ended the call, I leaned in his direction and apologised, Britishly, before asking if he was (as the call suggested) a flying instructor, as I had wanted to learn to fly a plane in an effort to abate my fear of air travel. He was, indeed, and the two of us talked a while about the basics, how turbulence works, his life, his adventures as a pilot and how the world appears, and how one’s perspective changes, from thousands of feet in the air. He gave me his card and we agreed to have a lesson together the following week. It felt like fate.