The jumpsuit hangs in my closet, clean but faded. I haven't worn it since the last spray run, but I can't bring myself to throw it out.
It was a fire-drill afternoon when I knew I was done. The engine sputtered over the barley field, and I set her down in the dust, hands shaking.
The paperback on my windowsill is warped from rain — a pilot's memoir I read twelve times. The pages smell like the inside of a cockpit, fuel and sweat.
I'm the oldest of four. My paycheck kept the house warm. But I was also the one who flew low enough to see a fox chase a hare across the field.
The uniform doesn't mean I'm a pilot anymore. It means I was something, once. And maybe that something is still worth keeping.
I think it's the only thing I own that proves I didn't just survive — I flew.