Moki

The Maoris called it a moki. It’s construction was exceedingly simple: collect bulrushes and bind them in a bundle, the simplest of conveyances. It’s purpose of intimate importance: to carry a single person over a body of water; a lake, a river, a stream. Tears.

Michelle held her plane ticket close to her heart, fist clutching those one-way paper wings. It was her moki, her way out. She would leave on a craft of her own making, built on one sad memory a time. Over oceans it would carry her, past the stream of tears and onto the land of dead empires where her knight stood on his pedestal, armor gleaming in the failing day.

The final call for flight to paradise.

She stood among the throng of passengers, ticket on one hand, earthly posessions in the other. She would board that plane with 400 other souls yes, but it would still be her moki. It would carry only her and her alone.

For my "granma", Michelle "Bunnzy" McClellan.