This was before the lines, the gates, and checkpoints.
Before airports became an exercise
in hurry up and wait.
Before I understood the physics
and simply trusted the magic roar of engines,
to fling us into the wind like
my father might toss a kite.
Squeezed in around me:
Clean shaven men in business casual.
Tired college students swaddled in school colors.
A pair of children, kicking at each other.
I watched as buildings became delicate dollhouses,
fields - patchwork quilts,
mountains turned to ripples in the stone.
Clouds became my new mountains,
new fields, oceans, even cities.
All the familiar landscapes now pantomimed in white.
Before, I did not know
there were so many ways to shape a sky,
but then the world around me darkened.
The captain is telling us
we should not worry. We will fly around it.
Still… buckle your seatbelts.
Tiny turboprop puddle jumper
suddenly turned rollercoaster.
The magic roar drowned out
by howling wind.
Tossed back and forth
on the stormy jet stream.
Behind me, the two children are screaming
– hands to the heavens as if in prayer -
“It’s more fun if you raise your arms!”
It’s funny, the memories that stick with you. The memory this poem is based on is a couple decades old by now, but I still remember the two kids behind me pretending our tiny storm-caught jet was a roller coaster.
Photo by Ross Parmly on Unsplash