I haven't written enough pointless stories these days!
X-ray vision isn't my first choice of superpower, but of course I'd take what I could get, superpower-wise. If I did have it and I looked down, I'd see lots of other people's luggage and maybe some of my own stacked haphazardly in the belly of the plane, suitcases of all shapes, sizes, and colors swaying in rhythm with each other, speeding towards the same destination.
Below that? Clouds. Maybe a peek of ocean.
Irritatingly, neither Spotify nor Netflix likes airplane mode. They don't want to cooperate.
Not that I would have needed them if the airline had just given us free wifi. You go to your search engine, type “watch *insert title* free,” eventually you'll find a way to watch the whole thing for free. Although that is, I suppose, if you can tolerate everything you touch materializing into a porno ad, which some people can't.
Google Drive works, I guess. Huzzah. I need to get more mindless games to play on my phone.
Thank the nonexistent gods for Johannes Gutenburg. I would die of boredom if it weren't for books.
And although it is a general rule that having wifi improves your life, Mosquitoland is seriously awesome. I recommend it. Read it four or maybe seven times, but seriously. If something is awesome and epic, why would you not read it a bunch of times? It hasn't lost an ounce of charm. My sister says I read too much, but there is seriously no such thing.
I sit and read until a familiar backdrop becomes apparent from the window seat.
A sigh of relief puffs out of me, not because Seattle isn't awesome. Rather, it was insanely fun, but I am seriously ready to go home.
As the plane swings in closer, I begin to sing slowly under my breath, so as not to disturb the other passengers.
The beat is lethargic at first, like a sloth tried to be conductor.
“There are no bananas
In the sky,
In the sky.
There's a sun
And a moon
And a coconut cream pie,
But there are no
In the sky,
In the sky.”
I don't know why I do this. No, wait, I do know, it's just really stupid and I prefer not to explain it. The concept of airplanes is freaky, OK??
As the Sacramento cityscape looms closer and closer, my tempo bops up faster and faster. My words are all smushed against each other when the plane wheels, million-mile-an-hour appendages designed to perfectly land a giant aerodynamic projectile, connect with the ground with a thud and a jerk that can only be gravity’s rough embrace.
The next hour, getting off the plane, out of the airport, back into our car, and into the ol’ homestead. Only then, with my bones resting where they're meant to be and my lovey, lumpy backpack cuddled at my side, do I realize that it's raining. Pouring. Like water kamikaze jets.