Notes From Flying Back Home

I am writing this from my parent’s couch in Sudbury, Massachusetts. It’s green–that thin microfiber material that feels like suede. I remember its predecessor even better–that ratty, old, gray thing with rips from our two cats’ unclipped nails. The small brown clock with the roman numerals is watching over me from the mantle. The pendulum swings back and forth, back and forth.

Now is the time I am supposed to get in my bed, pull on the covers, and fall into a deep, deep sleep.

But I slept on the plane. I curled up in my seat preference by the window, one foot on the raised ground console, elbow on that knee, chin in my palm like a glass crystal ball. Every once in a while, a bit of turbulence would strike and I’d pop up in my half-asleep delusional state.

The middle-aged Asian man next to me probably thought I was crazy. He had large headphones that cover your ears. I always think people look silly in them, but my ear buds were hurting today and I wished I could borrow his instead.

When I wasn’t asleep, I read United’s in flight magazine. There was an article by Alyssa Giacobbe. I recognized her name  in part because we share some letters, and also because she has written for Boston Magazine. One time, we met in the hallway at her office. I know she doesn’t remember.

This is my first time home as a real writer, I thought to myself.

When we landed, I pulled off the hood of my sweatshirt; I’d been using the polar fleece lining as a pillow. From the corner of my left eye, I caught a glimpse at my neighbor’s cell phone picture bank. He was scanning through them. One woman, I assume his wife, was prominent in the miniature photos. She was posing, sticking out her tongue, smiling quaintly or suggestively. I’m not sure which.

Then, he got to all these pictures of stuffed animals, which was weird to me. Maybe she’s pregnant? I wondered.

*

Part of me enjoys flying alone. I like rushing through the airport as if I’m important and have somewhere to be. I race through security, plopping my boots and bag on the belt as if the world will come crashing down if I miss my flight.

Actually, I’ve only done that once or twice.

Usually I play the nice game. I am polite and say “thank you, have a good night,” to every employee who checks my ticket, scans my baggage, or asks for my ID. I think there’s something gratifying about being this way when you are alone and no familiar witness is around (then again, maybe telling you defeats the purpose?).

While I wait outside the airport for my ride, I suddenly feel very sad. I think about being stranded there, watching as families reunite around me. When we had taken off, looking at the land below, I thought about how the act of seeing a city disappear into the distance was supposed to be clichéd. I wasn’t supposed to feel nostalgic or small, but I did. And I couldn’t help thinking damn. I’d failed. I’d fallen victim to the odd charm of flying.

*

I’m at the point in my life–a very adult point–where I’ve started saying things like “Oh, I will get a friend to pick me up at the airport.” I spent a good portion of the fall corralling my buddies into driving me to and from departures and arrivals in both Virginia and Massachusetts. I am constantly running between both places, spreading myself too thin. I know that soon, my Dad will show up in his forest green Accord, and we will talk about cooking and sports and the late notice on my car insurance payment. It will all be okay then.

On the curb next to me, the Asian man from my aisle is getting into the car with the girl from the photos. Once he’s settled, he doesn’t hug her and she sure as hell doesn’t smile. He throws his duffle in the backseat, and turns forward, looking to the exit. She looks at him, and then, they go. Perhaps there is an unspoken knowledge: that he is happy to be there? that she is happy to have him there, too?

I can’t remember the last time I saw someone I missed and could restrain myself from forcing upon them my needy, gripping embrace.

Right now, I am supposed to get into my bed and fall into sleep. Instead, I am sitting here, on our microfiber couch with a white fuzzy blanket, a neon yellow pillow, and fragments from a flighty day.

—

[written Friday 2/12/10, around 1:30 am]