Recently air travel has become a somewhat emotional experience for me. It’s not due to unpleasant flight conditions, unfriendly staff or anything like that. It’s just been – I don’t know – different.
Just yesterday for example, I’m looking through family photos and sketching portraits, and before you know it I’m in tears. Maybe it was a lack of sleep, the music I was listening to, or that I was heading to a funeral upon touchdown. Who knows, and what difference does it matter to investigate further? Just face it dude, you’re a softy.
The following is a snippet from my DayOne Journal, dated May 20:
Thirty-three thousand feet above ground is thirty-three thousand feet closer to heaven. At least that’s what I imagine. Ever since I was a kid I’ve always seen heaven as a place above the clouds, fluffy white and sunlit.
There’s not a lot to do on an airplane. It’s not like you can check Facebook. So as I flip through the photos on my phone, I pause at the one I took of dad days before his passing. This photo I choose not to share, it’s just for me. I zoom in close and run my finger along the side of his face. It feels like glass, artificial, not real. I notice he’s not looking directly into the camera, his gaze is off to the right. Perhaps he is smiling at my mother, or maybe he is lost in thought, I’ll never know.
Time passes but the hole in my heat refuses to heal.
So at thirty-three thousand feet I take comfort in perceived proximity to paradise.