What Still Remains

“Would you care for a drink?”

No. No I would not.

I am so exhausted in this life right now, not even a glass of wine can change that.

‘No, thank you” I say with a smile that I know does not reflect appreciation for the question, but it does not matter because she is working this plane and already on to the next row of passengers.

I am not sure she even heard me in the din.

I am not sure she even cares.

And me, I just want to close my eyes, so I do.

The sound of drink carts clattering down the aisle interrupts the calm I crave, until they are finally parked, and I sense the cabin has been dimmed as a hush hovers in the late of the night.

All broken by an occasional rustle of movement; a murmured voice from the seat behind, a page turning in a book across the aisle, and you.

I do not have to see to be aware you are still there, sitting close beside me. Twisted in your seat, eyelids fluttering those long brown lashes, clinging to a stuffed bunny while you throw your body in fits of uncomfortable sleep, my way.

Your tiny head, covered in dark tousled hair, pushes its way under my arm like a gosling who lost her mama. Nestling in to continue dreaming the dreams five-year-old little girls still believe, you have gently startled me with your softness.

I lift my own head, heavy as my heart, from the tiny glass window I have been pressing my temple against in hopes of corralling loose thoughts into rest. Glancing sideways, I lock eyes with your mama, struggling to hold onto a sleeping baby wrapped around her body like a burrito with shoes on.

So weary and glassed over, appearing to have perhaps slept last year before there were two, she frees one hand, reaching sideways in an attempt to pull you back from the stranger that is me.

I know laying hands on another’s child is considered taboo in our society today, but here we are, two women thrown together: living out two very different scenarios in life.

Randomly connected 36,000 feet in the air on angel wings.

Both of us just damn tired.

So, I go ahead and risk doing the only thing I have ever known; be a helper. Even if you are not asked. Because sometimes, someone just cannot.

I whisper and nod “It’s okay,” praying my face conveys assurance of character as I draw my arm around you; a circle allowing a safe place to land in a world where trust is not a word we trust.

Mama stares back at me with hazel irises, deep as a tunnel. Seemingly relieved and smiling a gracious thank you as we hum through the universe on a great plane that was once considered a miracle we do not even think twice about anymore.

Instead, the miracle now has become this moment between two mothers. Decades apart, sitting side by side in this highest atmosphere, where time has time to stand still against the painful breaking of human touch the world seems bent on dismantling through fear.

It is here the two of us have chosen to live these last unspoken moments before returning to earth and our own corners. Right here, in fearless peace, where no one can tell us to be afraid of each other.

Mama drifts off into a land far away while I stay watch over this row of humans that randomly ended up in my life for the past 4 hours; processing the beauty of gifts we did not know we needed. Her, peaceful slumber, and me, hope.

These are the moments, despite the wreckage, which still remain between people who see.

I feel the weight of your green corduroy pants and flowered cotton blouse. Those Cinderella socks tucked under the baby’s blanket mama placed over your little body is hanging toward the floorboards, scattered with cheesy fish crackers.

Thirty minutes from now you will awaken and discern you do not know me and move towards your mama. As it should be.

But for just a bit longer I will hold your innocent light with that stubby thumb rubbing back and forth over the furry white ears of your bunny, as you continue to curl up against me like a slice of the moon.