The plane I traveled out West on was a genuine 21st century bird. A full mid-morning flight, we were packed in tightly, bodies beside bodies beside bodies, with only a few inches to spare. A guard stood at the gate alerting anyone with oversize luggage that it’d have to be checked at the last minute; with so much baggage, so much stuff, I wondered if the plane would be able to lift up into the air at all.
On the sterile ramp I stand and wait for the children in front of me to step onto the plane. The little girl, decked out in gold curls and jelly shoes, trails a mini Hello Kitty rolling suitcase behind her. Crouched at the plane’s door, I tap the metal body, rapping my knuckles three times against its skin. “Remember to make friends with the plane,” my Stepmother had told me the night before, sensing my pre-flight jitters. “I always do,” I responded with mock enthusiasm. In truth I never would have forgotten something so important; I’d already performed the flying rituals my OCD mandated three times that morning, bizarre concoctions of repeated phrases and tongue clicks and prayers sent up to a God that, in better times, I swear never even exists.