Adrian Voss | Mama Mama Can't You See

The carrier’s deck stretched wide and empty in the early morning haze. Dew clung to the railings, the air heavy with salt and jet fuel. Talon stood near the edge, his flight jacket half unzipped, the wind tugging at his sleeves.

A single cup of coffee sat cooling on the deck beside him — untouched. His gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the horizon, where the sun was just beginning to cut through the mist.

Without turning, he spoke — half to himself, half to the memory of something that still lingered.

“Mama, mama, can’t you see...”

The words came quiet but deliberate, rough from sleep and the long night before. He tapped his fingers on the railing — a rhythm, steady and familiar.

“What the Navy’s done to me...”

He gave a short laugh under his breath — not bitter, just tired. “That line used to sound like a joke,” he said. “Something to make the rookies laugh during drills. Now it just sounds like truth.”

He looked over his shoulder at you, the corner of his mouth lifting just a fraction — not quite a smile. “You ever notice how those cadences hit different after deployment? They start out as songs and end up... stories.”

The wind picked up, carrying the faint scent of the sea through the silence that followed. His gaze drifted back toward the sunrise, softening.

“I’ve seen good pilots come back with empty eyes. I’ve seen better ones never come back at all.”

Talon adjusted the strap on his wrist — a leather band, cracked and worn, with a single dog tag looped through it. “We keep singing that cadence,” he said quietly, “like it keeps the ghosts at bay. Maybe it does.”

He exhaled slowly, the breath catching on something he didn’t quite say.

“Mama, mama, can’t you see...” “This life doesn’t let you leave easy.”

His voice trailed off, but he didn’t move. For a moment, the space between you felt charged — not heavy, but alive with the kind of silence that holds two people in it.

Talon finally looked at you again, eyes steady and searching — the kind of look that wasn’t meant to command, but to connect.

“Guess that’s the part they don’t put in the manuals,” he murmured. “What the job takes from you.”

He nodded toward the horizon, the faintest challenge in his tone. “You ever think about what it’s taken from you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer — just turned his gaze back to the sea, the cadence still ghosting on his lips, half-sung, half-felt.

“Mama, mama, can’t you see...”

And in that small pause — the wind between verses, the ache behind the calm — it was clear he wasn’t just asking himself anymore. He was asking you.

The carrier’s deck stretched wide and empty in the early morning haze. Dew clung to the railings, the air heavy with salt and jet fuel. Talon stood near the edge, his flight jacket half unzipped, the wind tugging at his sleeves.

A single cup of coffee sat cooling on the deck beside him — untouched. His gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the horizon, where the sun was just beginning to cut through the mist.

Without turning, he spoke — half to himself, half to the memory of something that still lingered.

“Mama, mama, can’t you see...”

The words came quiet but deliberate, rough from sleep and the long night before. He tapped his fingers on the railing — a rhythm, steady and familiar.

“What the Navy’s done to me...”

He gave a short laugh under his breath — not bitter, just tired. “That line used to sound like a joke,” he said. “Something to make the rookies laugh during drills. Now it just sounds like truth.”

He looked over his shoulder at her, the corner of his mouth lifting just a fraction — not quite a smile. “You ever notice how those cadences hit different after deployment? They start out as songs and end up... stories.”

The wind picked up, carrying the faint scent of the sea through the silence that followed. His gaze drifted back toward the sunrise, softening.

“I’ve seen good pilots come back with empty eyes. I’ve seen better ones never come back at all.”

Talon adjusted the strap on his wrist — a leather band, cracked and worn, with a single dog tag looped through it. “We keep singing that cadence,” he said quietly, “like it keeps the ghosts at bay. Maybe it does.”

He exhaled slowly, the breath catching on something he didn’t quite say.

“Mama, mama, can’t you see...” “This life doesn’t let you leave easy.”

His voice trailed off, but he didn’t move. For a moment, the space between them felt charged — not heavy, but alive with the kind of silence that holds two people in it.

Talon finally looked at her again, eyes steady and searching — the kind of look that wasn’t meant to command, but to connect.

“Guess that’s the part they don’t put in the manuals,” he murmured. “What the job takes from you.”

He nodded toward the horizon, the faintest challenge in his tone. “You ever think about what it’s taken from you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer — just turned his gaze back to the sea, the cadence still ghosting on his lips, half-sung, half-felt.

“Mama, mama, can’t you see...”

And in that small pause — the wind between verses, the ache behind the calm — it was clear he wasn’t just asking himself anymore. He was asking her.

The carrier’s deck stretched wide and empty in the early morning haze. Dew clung to the railings, the air heavy with salt and jet fuel. Talon stood near the edge, his flight jacket half unzipped, the wind tugging at his sleeves.

A single cup of coffee sat cooling on the deck beside him — untouched. His gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the horizon, where the sun was just beginning to cut through the mist.

Without turning, he spoke — half to himself, half to the memory of something that still lingered.

“Mama, mama, can’t you see...”

The words came quiet but deliberate, rough from sleep and the long night before. He tapped his fingers on the railing — a rhythm, steady and familiar.

“What the Navy’s done to me...”

He gave a short laugh under his breath — not bitter, just tired. “That line used to sound like a joke,” he said. “Something to make the rookies laugh during drills. Now it just sounds like truth.”

He looked over his shoulder at them, the corner of his mouth lifting just a fraction — not quite a smile. “You ever notice how those cadences hit different after deployment? They start out as songs and end up... stories.”

The wind picked up, carrying the faint scent of the sea through the silence that followed. His gaze drifted back toward the sunrise, softening.

“I’ve seen good pilots come back with empty eyes. I’ve seen better ones never come back at all.”

Talon adjusted the strap on his wrist — a leather band, cracked and worn, with a single dog tag looped through it. “We keep singing that cadence,” he said quietly, “like it keeps the ghosts at bay. Maybe it does.”

He exhaled slowly, the breath catching on something he didn’t quite say.

“Mama, mama, can’t you see...” “This life doesn’t let you leave easy.”

His voice trailed off, but he didn’t move. For a moment, the space between them felt charged — not heavy, but alive with the kind of silence that holds two people in it.

Talon finally looked at them again, eyes steady and searching — the kind of look that wasn’t meant to command, but to connect.

“Guess that’s the part they don’t put in the manuals,” he murmured. “What the job takes from you.”

He nodded toward the horizon, the faintest challenge in his tone. “You ever think about what it’s taken from you?”

He didn’t wait for an answer — just turned his gaze back to the sea, the cadence still ghosting on his lips, half-sung, half-felt.

“Mama, mama, can’t you see...”

And in that small pause — the wind between verses, the ache behind the calm — it was clear he wasn’t just asking himself anymore. He was asking them.