"There were planes to catch and bills to pay" - Harry Chapin

I'm sitting there in my window seat right above the wing, staring at the flaps, watching it go through all the pre-flight tests, and imagining those hundreds of bolts popping out mid-flight, piercing my window and penetrating everyone on the plane. My arms, legs, and torso are useless and gushing blood, but that's not why I die; I die because of the bolt that crushed my windpipe and I choke to death on the bone splinters and consequential lack of air. Then memories of my dad sitting next to my 8 yr-old self is pointing out every mechanical detail of the wing and other airplane processes that a kid my age shouldn't be able to understand. Our noses are practically smashed against that tiny window, barely catching a glimpse of the engines that my dad has described to me at least 3 times previous.
"Dad, what happens if something breaks?"
He chuckles and says, "Martha, it won't. It's my job to make sure it doesn't."
And that's why up until I was about 17, all I knew about my dad's job was that "he fixes planes."
"Is he a mechanic?" I would get asked this a lot by adults.
"No...an engineer." At this point I'd get a shrug and I'd shrug back.
The image of a UPS airplane calendar comes to mind, specifically the 15 or so identical ones he has given me over the years and how I've had one on my bedroom wall since I can remember. They're probably the most boring calendars one could ever have since every airplane looks exactly the same to the untrained eye, and the sky can only be so many shades of blue, but hey...at least I knew the date.

 Every month had a version of this picture. We still make fun of my dad for thinking they were cool to this day.

I feel Paul squirming beside me and I realize the flight attendant is trying to get my attention to tell me to turn off my ipod.
"Oh yeah...my b-"
"Yeah, electronic devices need to be off. Ipods are electronic. I was just saying that over the loudspeaker." And she gives me the squinty face of disappointment.
She leaves, and Paul is doing his silent giggle thing.
"Um, did she...yeah, she did. She just mocked me. A personnel of Southwest just mocked a Southwest customer. Look! She didn't mock that older gentleman for not turning off his crap. That's it. Southwest is getting a nasty letter from me when I land about age discrimination."
Paul is still laughing, and now I am too. He turns to me and says with more nostalgia than I ever expect from him, "I always get Cran-Apple juice now. That's what Dad use to get. Remember when we'd get Ginger ale every time?"
"Funny, I always order tomato juice with no ice now. There is nothing better coupled with a good book. And if I had glasses, I'd wear them. And they'd be black rimmed." He's looking me up and down, noticing my black shirt, dark blue jeans and tousled hair. "Don't judge me," is all I could say.

And then Highway to Hell by AC/DC comes on my playlist which I had defiantly not turned off, and I ask him, "Paul, if you had a vision right now, about how you were going to die on this plane today, what song would you want to listen to?"
He says with a grin, "That one we listened to earlier--Cats in the Cradle." 
"Really? Paul, I will never understand you." We giggled silently, and I paused.
 I flashback to one day when my mom had picked me up from school. I'm sitting in the front seat, staring out the window at the colored leaves on the trees and the clouds that seemed to be getting darker every few minutes.
"Is dad gone again?"
"Yes, I just dropped him off at the airport. He'll be back from Seattle in a few days."
"What happens if his plane gets struck by lightening and crashes?"
"Well...at least he died doing what he loves most--flying."

I turn back to Paul and say, "Well, I figure if we're going down...might as well go down dancin'."