More on: airplanes

It would be fine my mother said, as we boarded the plane back from school, the taste of ginger from the holiday still riding my back teeth.

He shaped them out of balsa wood, one model plane after another, a boy during Word War II. With sharp blade in his small hand he carved the curves for what could hover over his bed at night, until a whole fleet of planes hung from the ceiling, breezes through the window rustling them into…