I gripped his wrist. I had a vision: wind ripping a wing off, the plane falling out of the sky in the tight spiral of a pinecone seed. We were hours late, and the ride was too bumpy for anyone to even bring us drinks.
I should have been terrified.
We were going to visit my family. Ted was going to meet my dad and my brother for the first time.
It might already be springtime there.
At Christmas my brother and I get out of bed while it is still dark and go climb in our parents’ bed to wake them up. We have three-hour breakfasts that sometimes include performances and end with clean-up dance parties. Clockwise, we sit: dad, sister, mom, brother. Unless we are in the car: dad, mom, brother, sister. We’ve spent decades just the four of us, and in this system of inside jokes and assigned seats, I’ve never been able to imagine how someone new will fit.
I should be terrified. I should be at least anxious.
“Remind me not to let you drink coffee at the airport,” he’d told me when I just could not stop talking.
But I was excited and I am excited and I’m pretty sure everything will be fine as long as this plane can land wheels first.