The Aviator

        “June 12, 1942. That was the day I lost my father…” She stopped and laid her head against her desk. Sandra felt the weight again. The pressure stacked up so high that she felt she could no longer hold a pen. The raindrops patted the window as the clouds shadowed her room. She glared outside of their apartment building to the bustling streets below. She hated this place. She hated the war, she hated the loneliness, and she hated her lack of talent. Her creative spark had gone cold ever since they had received the news of her father; it had fully locked her out.

           Sandra finally rose from her desk and drudgingly went to her door. She was tired- she had stayed up until 3am this morning, only hoping that she could get something on paper. Her dream, her passion, was writing. She loved creating, and even more than that, she loved to escape. She was only 11 at this time, but she understood life fairly well. She understood war, and the financial trouble that her mother had found them in many times. She understood how heavy it can be to lose someone you love. But what she didn’t understand was why we HAD to lose people we love- especially because of war.

           Her door creaked open and she turned around the corner of their two-bedroom home. She shuffled into the living room and dropped on the couch. “I can’t do it,” she complained to her mother. Her mother was calmly sitting in the rocker, crocheting what appeared to be a blanket. “Can’t do what?” she asked. Sandra fell over and lay her head on the couch. “Uhhhh,” she said frustrated. She sighed when her mother didn’t take the complaint as an answer. “Write,” Sandra finally answered. “What is it you’re trying to write about?” she asked. Sandra sat up now, pondering the question. “Well,” she began. “I wanna write about the war, but the only thing that ever shows up on the paper is the day dad died.” She slouched down where she sat. “I need to expand my brain or something.” Her mother looked at her thoughtfully now. “Why don’t you try the library?”

           Sandra hurriedly grabbed her rain coat from her closet and threw it over her shoulders. She burst through the living room and found the front door. “Don’t be too late!” her mother hollered as the door slammed shut behind her daughter. The rain only sprinkled down, but it had been doing so for nearly a week now. Puddles lined the sidewalks that seemed to continue forever. The long streets before her opened the dirty skyline of the large city. Sandra only wished to get away from it all. But how to do it when her passion was gone? A slight frown touched her face as she remembered the reason she was heading to the library in the first place.

           She turned around the block and found the library standing before her. It had been a while since she had stepped foot in this place. Most of the time, after school, she would simply return home and lay everything out over her desk- only to find it rather empty. But she knew she could change that. The library was quite large; three floors filled with knowledge. She knew there had to be something that she could learn. She headed straight over to the librarian; the bookkeeper, as he liked to be called. She stepped up behind him and he stepped down from his step stool. “Ah Sandra. It’s been a while.” He had a smile on his face that threw Sandra’s gloomy attitude away. “Hi Mr. Hartley,” she responded spritely. “I want anything that could tell me about the war.” She paused a moment to reflect on her sentence. “This war,” she clarified. He smiled and gave a gesture for her to follow.

           She followed him to the back wall of the library. “I think you’ll find these rather helpful,” he said, waving his hand down the line of newspapers. A few people were seated in the area, already reading up on the misadventures of the current times. “Thank you,” she said smiling. He nodded and returned to what he had previously been working on. But Sandra’s face went stern as she rummaged through the rows of papers. It had been a few months since her father’s passing, and so, she checked over the dates of about when he died. Her fingers finally found the one she was looking for: June 13, 1942- the paper printed the day after he died.

           The front page read the leading nation of the time, the number of casualties, and other political nonsense that she didn’t really understand. She turned to the second page. The headline read, “Pilot saves young man from plane, dies in action.” She turned to the third page- just more war stories. She finally turned to the back of the newspaper and found something that caught her eye. It was a list of the casualties from the date of the paper. She ran her finger down the list and found his name. “James Davis: Sept. 4, 1908- June 12, 1942- see pg.2 headline.” Her heart began racing like the wind. She quickly turned to the page and realized that is was the story of the pilot. Sandra read over the article with beating eyes, unaware of the great actions that had taken place. “He died,” she quietly whispered to herself, “saving a 16-year-old boy.”

           She snapped from her gaze and gripped the paper in her fingers. Sandra ran as fast as she could to find the bookkeeper. “Mr. Hartley,” she said excitedly. “Can I please borrow this paper? I promise I’ll bring back this week.” He smiled to her once more and nodded. “Bring it back by Friday, okay?”

“Yes, I will! Thank you so much.” She turned and made a breakaway for home, fully inspired by the hero that she had never known her father was. She burst through the door to their apartment and spun past her mother who smiled, while washing the dishes. Sandra found her desk in her room and sat. It was an entirely new place now. It was filled with excitement, creativity, and most of all, hope. Her newfound gratification was more than enough to break the ice of her passion.

           Sandra looked back over the article and found a quote that she had read earlier from it. “Fighting for the freedom of another- nothing even compares.” She smiled at the thought and marveled at the fact that her father was a hero. Her pen touched the paper in a matter of seconds.

“June 12, 1942. That was the day my father became a hero…”