flight

I sit here, still strapped in. The seat belt sign never blinked off. It's wise to be safe. A window seat. I always loved window seats.

Outside now through the portal it is dark. A strange sky. No clouds. Some lights in the distance. Stars perhaps.

That is all I see. My vision focused down to the Plexiglas oval. And the outside. As if I am searching for something. Waiting.

It is the way my head is turned, to the left, my neck locked in position, like the flaps. I cannot see those in the seats around me. I know they are here with me. I can sense their presence in the darkness around me. Where would they go?

It is cold. A chill I have never felt before. Not unpleasant. But not warm either. Almost like that sharp tang in the back of the throat at the first step outside on a winter morning.

I could get up and walk around but there is the seat belt sign. I haven't heard an okay. And I don't want to leave my vigil at the window.

There seems to be frost on the glass, tiny crystallized fingers have crept up from the bottom edge. But the upper part is still clear. Somehow I think it is what they want me to do. These silent ones around me. To keep watch.

I do not remember the first time. I was two. The grandfather I never knew had passed away and we flew up for the funeral. I must have made an impression. Or perhaps I was fretful. I received two mementos.

A soldier returning home from the war gave me a Korean bank note. I still have it, somewhat crumpled but protected in a clear plastic sleeve. I take it out every once in a while to look at and think about the kindness of a stranger to a child.

The other was the pin a member of the flight crew gave me. Not the plastic ones in the cereal boxes. But a real metal one, with the emblem in the middle and two gold wings on the sides. I had it for years but it is long gone. I wonder what happened to it. Probably lost in some childish play. I can still feel it in my hands or pinned to my chest, while I raced through the yard with my hands outstretched, pretending to fly.

I don't know how long I have been here. Time is different. I could pull out my phone and check but I might miss something outside.

When I flew to a friend's wedding in Phoenix, my face was glued to the window the entire flight out of Denver. 30,000 feet up. Crystal clear all the way down. The most breathtaking scenery I have ever seen. A geometry of greens , browns, and blues. Worship. That sold me on window seats. I always ask for one.

A14. That is my seat this time. Right behind A12. Planes don't have a 13th row. Unlucky. Like the lack of a 13th floor in buildings. A missing number on the buttons in the elevator. A missing line of seats across the width of a plane.

The lights outside seem to be moving. I guess that means they are not stars. Other planes perhaps. I wonder. Are we drawing closer to our destination?

They remind me of the summer nights in the country when I was a little boy. Fireflies glowing outside my window before I dropped off to sleep. Mama called them love lights, each flash a hope-filled chance at finding a mate. The hope outweighing the fear of being discovered by a hungry bird.

Now the lights seem to be coming closer. I should tell the others around me but somehow I think they already know.

Strange but it is almost as if I can see faces in the lights, but I am not afraid. Such peace and compassion radiates from them.

Then they are here, inside, all round me, all around us. I feel a warmth flow into me. My seat belt falls away and I float free. I notice my fellow passengers rising with me.

Out through the roof of the cabin we pass, our bright companions by our sides.

Looking back I see the plane lying upon the sea floor, a river of lights pouring from its broken frame.

Then I know.

But I am not afraid.

I hold on to the warm hand of my guide and I take my final flight.