It’s 11 o’clock and the bumps along the runway are causing the plane to bounce comfortably along like a hydraulic chair in the drivers seat of a bus.
I’m always seated in a window seat and as we pass by the airport hangers, my eyes fixate on the planes that are having maintenance performed on them. To me, everything in this world has feeling. There are dozens of tiny crates surrounding them, tools scattered around the tires and for some, the face of the plane is completely gutted and being operated on. As I slowly bounce by, in my happy plane who gets to fly, my heart string attaches to those who are left in the hanger. The further my plane pulls away, the tighter the string pulls. A crick in my neck pinches when I turn to try and keep my eyes on those left bend. But before I know it, my back thrushes into the the base of my leather seat. My elbows tuck into my rub cage as I tightly clasp my hands together.
Speed increases, the humming of the engines roar louder. The force of the air as it catches beneath the tires leaves my stomach dropping ever so slightly, just enough to break the string. Before I can realize what happened, we are thousands of feet into the sky and I feel nothing. All that remains is a grey numbing sensation that clouds over my heart to protect it from the longing for what we’ve left behind. As my finger touches my chapped lips, I take a deep breath.
I wonder how long until we even out.