Airspace

Of privacy and apologies

Eleanor stood in her backyard wearing her sunhat.

Above the petunias, a small drone hovered.

She waved it off with a gardening glove. It didn’t flinch.

Across the fence, her neighbor’s grandson fiddled with a controller, tongue on the left side of his mouth.

“Kevin,” she said.

He didn’t look up.

“Kevin,” she said again, louder.

He blinked.

“Oh. Hi, Mrs. Cartwright.”

“Your flying machine is in my airspace.”

“It’s just mapping terrain.”

“My terrain is currently pulling weeds and would like privacy.”

He tapped a button. The drone buzzed upward.

Eleanor returned to her flowerbed, muttering about satellites, surveillance, and “back in my day” statements.

Two days later, the drone was back.

This time it carried something.

Eleanor watched it lower into her yard and drop a folded note onto the grass.

She opened it.

Sorry for the invasion. Drone says it’s deeply regretful. Would like to make peace.

Underneath was a doodle of a flower.

She glanced at the fence.

Kevin waved, smiling.

She wrote a reply on the back of the note.

Peace accepted. But your drone owes me a rose.

The drone zipped back to him carrying the message.

The next morning, a long stemmed rose sat on her porch with a bow tied around it.

No drone in sight.

Eleanor picked it up, sniffed, and smiled.

It was a good apology.

Still, she looked up at the sky.

“If that thing comes back during my slingshot class, I’m taking it out.”

And she meant it.