Up, Up, and Away
Long ago, they would give you wings when you flew, the metal of the runway gate creaking below my feet as I crossed into the plane. I would hold my breath as I stepped over the threshold, a chasm of air and ground below between my small self and the great composite bird. It felt like a red carpet premiere, a team of well-dressed men and women excitedly waiting to welcome you. I would be ushered immediately to the left, away from the rest of the plane, to take in the mechanics of the cockpit, pilots preparing for take-off, attendants nearby hastily checking boxes and stuffing food and drink into aisle-friendly carts. Before turning to take my seat, someone would make a grand gesture, pointing to the golden wings pinned to the pilot’s shirt before flashing an open hand or a hidden compartment to reveal the prize to be bestowed: my own pair of wings.
There were other things, too. Notepads and pens, piles of branded playing cards, bags of shiny plastic wings. In those days, everyone was still smoking on airplanes, little silver ashtrays embedded in every armrest, and when I wasn’t listening to music or coloring or trying to decode puzzles with my invisible marker, I would nervously flip the ashtray top with my finger, making a click-swoop-click-swoop sound over and over. Fidgeting all the way from Detroit to Sacramento.
I must’ve been six or seven when I began traversing the air alone. There were always other kids along for the ride, clustered together on the plane so the attendant responsible for our connecting flights could find us while in the air. Once we arrived in a city, we were gathered off the plane in succession and hustled through the airport, changing hands from attendant to attendant, a quick meeting of minds in crowded airport hallways before funneling kids in opposite directions. It was like being at summer camp — brief meetings, fast friendships, fleeting departures, never to be heard from again. After a few years, I knew the ropes and took it upon myself to comfort the younger kids who looked concerned. I love you, said a scrawled note that I found once in my backpack upon arriving in Sacramento, scribbled in crayon by the boy flying solo seated next to me on the flight.
