Her bedtime, we board
Grabbing the last of the Western sun.
Jet exhaust, stagnant air
“Insert the metal buckle into the clasp”
“Your nearest exit may be behind you”
She pops her head up, swivels to look
Pops down again, tightens her belt.
Tired, she leans on my arm
Sandwiched between me and a stranger
Who plays a game on his iPad
Relived the girl next to him is no longer an infant.
Me, too.
Sometimes.
And
If
I
Move
She
Will
Wake
Up
So
I don’t.
I sit and watch the heads all around me
Bob around in the bumpy air
Until I am the only one
Left awake.
The hum of the engine
The clatter of the drink cart
The cabin dark save for “No Smoking” lights.
“Pretzels, peanuts, cookies?”
Whispered; no one takes any.
An hour goes by; oh, how my arm aches!
I move.
She wakes only just enough to rebuke me
Not really even seeing it is me at all.
Not even remembering she is on an airplane
Or that she will be in her own bed in three more hours
And falls asleep again.
I sigh
And stare at the Exit Row
In front of me, which is
The closest one after all.
© Copyright 2008- Marianne Spellman