I’ve spent these last 40 days gathering what I have of my father. What did my dad give me?

Genetically I have the unmistakable profile. I also have a memory of moments that are just perfect.

My dad flew model planes. Not the kind that are gasoline powered and remote controlled. The kind you assembled from plans, piecing together frames and trusses from wood . Over the frame you stretch Japanese paper or some film so thin, air will tear it if you walk too fast. Then you carve and shave out the curves of a propeller, and hook it onto the frame with a rubber motor.

It’s a very involved process where you have to figure out how the power of the motor, the lightness of the frame, and the length and shape of the wing work together to determine how long and how high the plane will fly.

I remember Saturday night in his workshop – doing my own thing in the corner as my dad tweaked some plane that he would try out the following day. Next morning, my dad would ask: “Do you want to fly today?” Flying meant, plane held lightly in hand we would walk to the middle of a large field, count up the winds of the motor, set the propeller, aim the nose up into the air, release, and off the plane would spiral and climb into the sky.

Inside this memory I am paused, shoes damp from dew, morning air cool on my skin, standing loosely, my head bent toward the sky. The light, open, blue sky and there is the graceful floaty climbing of the plane. It’s flying! A perfect moment.

Stepping back from the memory today, I realize something. That thing flying up there was wood and paper and a rubber band. Fantastic! As themselves I wouldn’t recognize them as flying things. But given some thought and patience and crafting, there they go. Do you want to fly today? Why not?

That’s what my dad gave me. An inquiring why not? Why not anything at all, given some thought and patience and crafting. Imagine the fantastic and craft its realization. My dad gave me the realizable fantastic, and the light, open, blue sky.