We were getting on a lot of planes and traveling for ever long.
There were more and more trips and I often thought about getting a map, or as if my DNA was being sowed.
Spread and distance, the thinning of things seemed inevitable, of my relationship, of the way my bed felt of the alarm, the microwave, and the rain in the gutter the moss on the stump… I kept asking my wife to send me more and more pictures of my sons, but our phones weren’t all that good then, they were the flip kind and really didn’t take pictures all that well, and when you did take them you would have to hook your phone up to the computer to send, and we didn’t have facebook or really blogs, you actually had to up load them to email or know HTML.
It got so that every time I got on the fucking plane, it felt like I was cutting myself in half. From what I wanted to be doing and what I was doing. I never wanted to be good at packing my bags, one for check, one for carry-on, knowing the ins and outs of different airports, where to eat where to drink, and what carousel to pick my bags up at.
It got to the point that after a few rough flights I would imagine the plane bursting into a million different pieces, that I couldn’t take the slightest little turbulence, that I watched every move and expression of the flight attendants face and would think all these weird things., how the hell does a plane crash and they don’t find any remains, how would my belt buckle cease to exist, it is metal, how would my teeth explode and my fingernails and hair just never be. It was crazy. I would imagine complex ways of constructing seat cushions upon impact for maximum padding, a bubble of soft floating pillows.
When all I wanted to do was be with my sons
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