August 27, 2017
I went to Atlanta a few weeks ago, for a business trip. We boarded onto a tiny eight-passenger plane, an intimate aircraft where pilots told us to tap their shoulder if we needed anything and where strangers conversed with others. For our flight total duration, we trailed along the sunset–shifting from Nashville to Atlanta. It was magic. I scribbled a short poetic note on the flight, and I wanted to share it with you.
Ears popping, my eyes scanning the pesticide track patters within the circle and square lots below. My eyes meet the river lines—their origins and their outpour. The clouds, watching the drops percolate through the weightiness of the world, creating something beautiful for bystanders below.
I’m thankful for the view, snapping a few photos every moment or so, naming the thanks even in the small things: this book on my lap, the forty-thousand foot view, the gentle drops of the aircraft, the chatter of one stranger helping another.
To the right are a plethora of beautiful billows, foamy and frothy. To the left are the cotton ball clouds lay beneath the aircraft, wind-raked and lightly packed, transparently texturing the sky. I hold on to this moment.
We drift along the sunset. In the distance, I see a series of clouds that remind me of those shared in view with my husband on our honeymoon cruise. I don’t wish to go back, though. Eyes hang in the thick of the fog, unmarred by nostalgia’s notorious spill. Every while further from the last provokes deeper understanding, prolongated past with each mile leveling a closer parallel to the sun’s stage.
A deeper, richer color saturates our love—kindred to the day’s finale.