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PROSE POETRY

by Justin Hollis

I am asked to give a lecture at a conference overseas. On the plane trip over, I remember it’s my birthday. How depressing, to have to spend the night in a hotel room in an unknown country, preparing my speech. Maybe I had complained out loud, because the woman next to me gently squeezes my hand. “That’s no way to spend your birthday,” she says, pressing the green button to summon the flight attendant—who no sooner comes rolling the drink cart down the aisle, handing out paper favors and hats. Soon everyone on board is singing “Happy Birthday.” Even the pilot appears from the cockpit, with a box wrapped in festive paper and a big red bow. Inside is an ice cream cake covered with candles. But suddenly there’s an explosion and the plane drops below the clouds. No one else seems to notice, though outside the window I see green acres of pastureland telescoping rapidly into focus, the grazing cows and horses, the plowing farmers wiping their grimy hands over their long white beards. “Make a wish,” insists the pilot, but suddenly I can think of nothing to wish for. What’s more, I count forty-seven candles, though I’m only now turning forty-six.