We’re in the park, finally, finally. I don’t remember the last time we were here in this park. BW, that’s for sure
“What’s that noise?”
My three-year-old tips his head back to the blue, blue sky.
Overhead, the rumble of fighter jets, one, and another, and another.
We don’t see them; we rarely do. I’m not sure if that’s because the sound reaches us only after they’ve passed, or if they’re flying too high, or they’re camouflaged somehow. Do they mirror the sky?
“It sounds like an airplane. Or a helicopter!” I say. Enthusiastically. He’s three years old; why should the sound of warplanes haunt him for a lifetime?
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