The pressure I put on myself to write sometimes keeps me grounded long before I ever reach a cruising altitude. Usually, the lightbulb finally switches on, or in this case, my ears pop.
On a recent flight, that moment finally arrived and helped me land a song I had been circling for months (which I absolutely will not be sharing here haha). So instead, here is a poem I wrote about it:
…
Somewhere over Alberta, I sat next to a woman named 23B.
I hoped for silence. She spoke instead.
Middle seat martyr, no room to flee.
Trapped in a tin can, turbulence and tea.
The flight was delayed, and my patience thin.
She flagged a flight attendant with a grin.
“One coffee, please.” I saw her delight.
The crew visibly gasped. It was 1 AM. Night.
She sipped like a queen, her voice full of flair,
projecting her life into the recycled air.
Bosnia. Friendship. A memory parade.
No seatbelt could save me. The stories stayed.
I rolled my eyes first, then softened mid-sigh,
because somehow, I listened for miles in the sky.
…
Her way of speaking was fascinating. Not careful, but complete. The kind of voice that does not ask for permission. It simply arrives, like a tray table snapping open mid-flight.
I appreciate 23B because she unknowingly helped me loosen my grip on perfection and return to creative freedom.
I hope she is doing well, wherever she is, and I wonder how I never actually got her name.
I also wonder if she always tells stories like that or if it was just the coffee. She must be a super cool person to have at a Christmas dinner or something.
I hope her family appreciates her, because I surely do.
Digital Dugme 