Flight No. 483 to Phoenix has boarded. The pilot informed all passengers to buckle their seatbelts and prepare for take off. And as per usual, a smile stretched across my face as the wanderlust pulsed through my veins. I was ready. I thought. Then plane took off.
Looking out my window I watched as our plane climbed up through the massive and jaw-dropingly beautiful cotton-like clouds that perfectly resembled my visions of heaven.
And boom! Visions of my dad and his excitement and passion for flight and all kinds of overwhelming emotions of the love of the sky came rushing over me like a tidal wave. Suddenly there I was; the girl in the window seat with the uncontrollable tears running down her face.
I hadn’t thought of it at all. I never realized I hadn’t flown, not even once, since the death of my father- The pilot who loved so much to take his loved ones with him flying in the sky. Shit, I even named my daughter Skye for just this reason. And still, for the last 2 years I’ve pushed these thoughts, feelings and the act of flying itself so very far away from me.
Maybe I’ve been afraid to feel something, or perhaps I have been trying protect myself from the bittersweet memories of the man who meant more to me than any other man in the world; I don’t know. But as those tears flowed like raging rivers down my cheeks I knew right then that I hadn’t felt this close to my dad since the last day I hugged him.
And it was nice!