I drew my father toward one picture in the flight museum: an earth-toned American airplane, alone in the raw sunshine of the stratosphere. Fifty black sticks fell from its belly in an even row, like a rope ladder dropping into the clouds.

Back at home, I pulled a sheet of brown construction paper from the desk drawer.
I folded the top corners in, then in again, ran my fingers along soft fibres. I creased
the edges into wings, folded the whole airframe in half. I ripped black paper into shreds and loaded the pieces inside.

As my plane floated across the room, black scraps spilled from its fuselage and drifted down onto the verdant Vietnamese jungle of the carpet below.