I am not alone. I am the fire.
“We’ve been in a holding pattern,” said the captain on Sunday on my flight back from the Women’s March on Washington. “There’s a storm. We’ll be circling for about 20 minutes more. Then, we’ll begin our decent. It’ll be turbulent.”
From where we were being held, you could see sweet butter sun and creamy skies. It was heaven. It was still. We hovered just above the darkness.
Then our plane entered the storm. The window turned gray. The interior lights went out. We jolted. We dipped. My stomach dropped lower than the plane. Under the florescent glow of emergency lights, I smiled at my seat neighbor. I don’t know if I was trying to reassure her or myself. She raised her brows.
Water lines like crooked fingers grasped my window. Desperate they were to survive the climb across the plane. A moment they paused, but no more. They pushed on into murky mess.
My ear sizzled but it did not pop. I went deaf. And the plane cabin and the people in it became distant. An alternate reality. I was in it, but not part of it.
How much more suffering? I might die. Are we ever going to land?
Then, I saw you out my window. You little dots of light below. We broke through the clouds and there you were City of Angels. Shining stars, sent from heaven, seeded in the earth. My guiding lights, just under the storm, to welcome me home. You are heaven. My fairy tale. My once upon a time. My happily ever after.
No, I am not alone in fever. I am fire.
We have weathered this storm many times before. We know our course.