14 Jan 25
Of course it is impossible to fall asleep on a plane like this. My body, my life’s longest friend, is my greatest foe. Bent in on myself, folded askew, I feel everything. The ankle tendon, the lower back, my butt: the razor burn of fatigue in my eyes. The endless din of some banal chatter and the respiratory system of this crude metallic bird. I am alone with my memories, my attachments: all that I’ve loved is overwhelming me in a swoon of loss.
They are like falling snowflakes, each memory: mostly of the kids, of Dawn, my parents, and me. Places we went, every time we came here. The me I was at times contemptible but always undeniably me. Camping with Lily when she was too young to know I was getting buzzed. Walking back with her in the morning through the slushy snow, her chattering little self so happy and alive. Lily with the imprints of Dawn and me and our parents, all the little flakes of snow settled into our kids. Charlotte saying how much she’ll miss me this morning, the two of us texting, Charlotte our last one to leave the house and how much harder it will be. Watching her compete with her dance team on stage Saturday night; they practice for hours every week all year long and then in three minutes it’s over.
I feel it all, twisted in my premium economy seat. The pull of the past seesawing to the future, catapulting me through space, a dot on the screen, cutting through the crowded airport to the long-distance trains always in a rush. Some random Tuesday in January setting down in Germany again. Mom asking how was the flight and did you get any sleep (I never can, she’ll say). Slotting into the track that is German time, old Europe, the fatherland. I feel it all, slouched in my seat. I feel old and reborn and renewed and dried up by this artificial air. And how surreal when I look at my watch and out the port-hole of a window a skein of clouds like the ocean’s surface arctic blue with tufts of white and the morning sky over Iceland as we curl southwards and my new journey begins, touching down to it now.
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Categories: Creative Nonfiction, Memoir, Travelogues
Bill Pearse 
Just so you know, sometimes I hate you and your talent. You wrote this on the plane? Surreal, sorrowful, skewed, sleep-deprived.
Bastard.
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Ha ha ha ha I love that. I read some narrative essays by Annie Dillard, an American “CNF” writer who inspired me to do that. 🙏 thanks Bruce
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Fabulous.
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I did not sign in so my previous posting went in under anonymous
you are such a great writer
I have done that trip from west to east (and back) many times since 2003
your words are exactly how I feel in a plane
thank you for your beautiful words
I should start writing my blog too now that I have so much time available
enjoy the meeting with your mom – it’s the best part after that 9 hour trip
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Thank you friend for this beautiful note! If this is Inamarie I remember you from years ago reading my blog and I think you moved to Canada if I remember right? Really appreciate the kind words. Blog on!
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Perhaps being airborne has helped elevate the writing in such a nice way, gliding along from melancholy over to pensive. Man I haven’t used that last word since I was in college but it’s a good fit, enjoyed this.
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Pensive is a good word indeed! Beats the latter, feels like another humour as they used to call it in medieval times eh? The “pens” as it were. Hence pensive? Thank you for reading RP really fun to have friends like you I’ve known so long now! Hope you appreciate the pensiveness and find it entertaining.
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