First Trip To England

England

It is my fourth time on an airplane. As the other three times, I feel woozy and almost disoriented at take-off, and despite my intention to read the book I bought at the airport I find myself unable to. For a moment, I wonder whether I am fainting, but a few deep breaths later I feel somewhat better.

The clouds below look like solid snow; one can almost imagine people sliding down, down, down, only to walk back to the top again in an endless circle.

At times, I think I can see the sea, but if I am to be honest, I would rather not see it. Even though I’m not afraid of flying – perhaps I should be, but such is the arrogance of mankind: we do not doubt our technology – seeing the clouds and knowing we are above them is quite a difference from knowing how far up we are.

The clouds look more like foam, or perhaps cream, now. Sometimes the wings cut through the ones farthest up, and I see them skimming on the surface of the wings; like water on a stone when the tide comes rushing in. Tendrils of white spread out like waves on sand.

If there is one thing I love about flying, it is the way white foam surf along the surface of the wings, like the steam from my tea cup.

I imagine sitting on the edge of that wing: tiny water droplets clinging to my skin, hair, my clothes. The cold, cold air rushing through me. For a moment, I can almost see her – red hair whirling, scarf pulling on her neck, but she looks free, exuberant.

We are flying like the birds we wanted to, yet we are caged.

My head acts up again when we descend a little. It feels strange, almost like a power outage. The clouds look like a sea of thoughts and memories.

The girl has gone – to join them, perhaps. Perhaps she is sitting on the wing of the airplane I can see to my left, barely more than a few millimeters in length at this distance. And perhaps I will see her on the wing, next time, as we are carried across the sea.

I can see the reflection of clouds on the wing’s surface, now. They look no more than shadows, but the sun creates a marvelous effect – and it is in moments like these I imagine sitting on Falcon’s back, being carried away in a story of no end.

An eternity of clouds stretches in front of me. They are white, opaque, as no man (or woman) should know their future. Sometimes clouds above cast shadows on us, other times we catch a glimpse of the world, of reality.

I close my eyes.