by David Russomano
In the years following 9/11, on a brilliant Sunday
morning drive, south toward church down
I95, my sister noticed sunlight glinting
off of something hovering over the small city
of Bridgeport. She described it as metallic, but no
aircraft remains stationary quite like that.
Though, in shape and size, it could’ve been a blimp,
they don’t have chrome exteriors or suddenly
take nose dives into city centers like bombs or
rockets. She flinched and braced herself
for an explosion that never came. Later, she
told the story that no one could corroborate.
Life goes on for her, unperturbed by what
she can’t explain. But an unbelievable account
from someone you trust is harder to dismiss
than hearsay. I still find the question slinking
around the dim corners of my mind and
occasionally barging forward into the light.
morning drive, south toward church down
I95, my sister noticed sunlight glinting
off of something hovering over the small city
of Bridgeport. She described it as metallic, but no
aircraft remains stationary quite like that.
Though, in shape and size, it could’ve been a blimp,
they don’t have chrome exteriors or suddenly
take nose dives into city centers like bombs or
rockets. She flinched and braced herself
for an explosion that never came. Later, she
told the story that no one could corroborate.
Life goes on for her, unperturbed by what
she can’t explain. But an unbelievable account
from someone you trust is harder to dismiss
than hearsay. I still find the question slinking
around the dim corners of my mind and
occasionally barging forward into the light.