6 hours.
That's how long we'd been on this plane. Me and my dad had gotten news about my mom early yesterday morning. A plane crash was reported in an open field in Flora, Oregon. It was my mothers. A body had not been found in the current remains. Parts of the plane had exploded, and were set afire, so they had flown into nearby trees and such. The police repeatedly told us, "nobody could survive something like that", I couldn't believe them. She had to be alive. I hadn't had enough time with her. We had so many plans. We were going to buy a dress for me even though i declined an innumerable amount of times. "Please let her be okay", I kept telling myself the whole trip. I couldn't stand the thought of losing somebody so close to me. That relationship couldn't be replaced or renewed. I'd be stuck. I wouldn't have a reason for anything. Nobody to scold me when i stayed out to late. No one to pester me about me dream to become an anthropologist. I'd be broken.
We'd be in Flora at 11:38pm. About twenty-six minutes from now. The crew said that we could check out the plane site in the morning. We had to find her tonight, she could be hurt, hungry, cold, or afraid. She'd be all alone. Just because their lousy workers couldn't find her, doesn't mean we cant. I know mother anywhere, any shape or form. I know every bone in her body by the way she sits, stands, or dances. Naturally, I would, she's the one who encouraged me to become an anthropologist. That was when things were normal. When she was home almost all the time while dad was working at the school on the weekends, and the Blue Fish Aquarium on weekdays, only having Sunday off. Even then he was usually in his office, grading papers. During all that time, mom was there, teaching me how to tuck in my shirt, how to tie a tie (which i basically forced her to teach me), to cook, to clean, to live.
If she was gone every part of me would die, would wilt like a sunset rose. If she was gone...
There would be no reason for me to be alive.
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