…… Tibetan prayer flags
…… flap in the wind
…… no one to talk to
Why Tower Air? I ask as my husband packs a suitcase to get ready to attend his
mother’s funeral. Because it’s a bargain, he says.
Wouldn’t you rather fly a major carrier?
I pull a card from my Tarot deck. Out of the 78 possibilities, it’s the Tower that shows
up. Flames shoot from the top of a crumbling brick tower while a couple with shock
imprinted on their faces falls through the air, crowns flying. There’s no soft landing
I plead with my husband to book with another airline, but he says he’ll be fine. I
shouldn’t put such faith in divination. As I entertain a couple of acquaintances, the
phone rings. My husband’s voice sounds far away.
…… dusk signals the jasmine to release its scent
I’m at Kennedy. We had to make an emergency landing. While flames shot from the
engine, the pilot told us to put our heads in our laps and brace for impact. The silence
was so thick, no one could make a sound. I took my wallet from my jacket, placed it in
the seat pocket facing me, just in case my body couldn’t be identified. And then I saw
a newspaper headline which seemed so vivid and real—son dies in plane crash after
attending mother’s funeral. It was the most bizarre experience. I thought my life was
over, that I’d never see you again. When we got off the plane, some people actually
kissed the ground. Everyone is shaken including the pilot’s wife. It was her husband’s
last flight before retirement.
While my guests stuff themselves on tacos and guacamole, I try to regain composure.
Don’t sweat the small stuff, they tell me. Get over it. Move on. Come eat. I want to
throw them both out but instead I bite my tongue until it aches. I count the minutes
until they’re out of my space.
…… the cat brings home a screech owl
I sense disappointment in my brother-in-law’s voice. Had there been a fatal accident,
he’d inherit all of the mother’s estate. I so need to vent, but my next-door neighbor,
who caught a blip about it on the news, is nonchalant.
During break in qi gong class, my husband tries to tell a classmate about the incident,
but the instructor glares at him as if to say, keep your sad stories to yourself.
…… The taste
…… of loneliness
…… evening meal
by Alexis Rotella
from Rattle #70, Winter 2020