Tina

You watch as I scan over the plane’s seating.

One plus of being a solo traveller on Southwest Airlines: Inevitably, there will be a middle seat in the first couple of rows anticipating me.

It’s funny when you think about it: Americans will take a window seat in the back rather than placing themselves between two strangers, no matter the convenience.

I always find a friendly looking woman and I choose her. A small ally for a few hours. I like looking through the porthole to the sky, but I’ve decided it’s worth sacrificing for the second row and an imagined companion.

The attendants do their song and dance: a display seatbelt, how to clip it in. What to do if the air pressure drops- put your own mask on first.

“This one really is just up and down, huh?” you say, muffled by a mask.

I hesitate, not sure if you’re talking to me. You say this but are focused on the runway.

I nod after a beat. “Forty five minutes. Crazy.” St. Louis to Des Moines, almost as quick as my daily commute to work.

And you turn to look at me. Clear eyes, tan skin. In your seventies and decorated with crystal bracelets.

“I like your jewelry,” I offer. 

And you light up. The amethysts are a gift from your daughter. They’re supposed to help with anxiety, and you’ve needed them to accompany your trips for treatment.

“Is Des Moines home for you?” You ask.

In a sense, I want to say.

It’s home and it’s not. But it’s safe and it’s mine.

You’re from there. 

It’ll be good to be home for the holidays, you say.

It’s good that I’m home a bit early to see the family.

In a sense, I want to say.

It’s good and it’s not.

I want to tell you and your kind, clear eyes that the circumstance isn’t ideal.

I’m tired of people dying before they’re supposed to, I want to say.

And I’m tired of hearing pain through the phone.

“It’ll be good to see the family,” I agree.

We’re taking off now, and you pause to close your eyes and trace a cross on your chest.

“I included you in my prayer,” you say after a few seconds.

I accept your invisible gift. Maybe it’ll be my amethyst for the flight.

The attendants begin to conduct a rushed drink service before our “up and down” begins its descent. 

I order a Bloody Mary. My dad always has on flights, and now I’m not sure if I drink them for myself or to feel grown up like him. 

You’ve put on glasses. They’re heart shaped with a pink gradient- the type I saw worn by hippies in textbooks or freshman sorority girls.

“Every flight deserves a Bloody Mary,” you say. And you say you’re 78 now and shouldn’t be drinking them, but you’ll look to me to pour one out for the both of us.

You tell me you were a merchant marine for a time. You saw the world- the pyramids, the rainforests, everything. You are old but you say you’ve built up your wisdom. You’ve seen what you’ve wanted to and now you’re home. Des Moines and occasionally St. Louis.

I want to tell you that I don’t know why I’m here anymore.

I pendulum between the desire to see it all, to rough it, to live the adventure.

I also want to live up to what I’m supposed to do. Resume, job, family.

But I’m not sure what matters now.

We are from the same place, heading to the same place. You radiate peace and quirkiness and kindness.

And I feel like a draft that has been reworked for the hundredth time. 

“Everyone seems like a baby to me at this point,” you say, “but you have all the time ahead of you, and I can tell that you have a good head on your shoulders. Everything is an experience. We’re blessed to experience.”

We agree that the cliches end up ringing true as the years progress. You joke that your brain is full of those wise little sayings now. 

You seem so confident in me, a random passenger. A stranger.

I wonder if you see something that I don’t right now. Or maybe you don’t truly know.

Des Moines is fast approaching and you pray again. I am added to the incantation.

And then you look me in the eyes and ask when I was born.

A Scorpio, you say. Of course.

I listen intently to you, woman of adventure and religion and new age-y ritual. I love it all and I tell myself that if you’ve done it, maybe I can too.

We land and you walk me to baggage claim. Your suitcase is shiny with rhinestone detailing. Truly fitting.

You meet my parents and say something about how much you’ve appreciated meeting their daughter.

You have a chauffeur waiting for you. “Perks of being old,” you say.

And I don’t know what Des Moines holds for you, and I hope with everything in me that it is all things good.

And I hug you and head to my good old Iowan minivan. And I hope with everything in me that my trip will share the same sentiment. 

Anyway- thank you, Tina.