Something to Hide
On the plane ride home from Philadelphia there was turbulence and I remembered the hurricane in the Gulf. Ignoring a gentle ruckus and the churning of my stomach’s anxious tides I read Wave by Sonali Deraniyagala and cried silently thinking about how it would feel to lose my family to the ocean.
As we descended over Atlanta I remembered standing in the front yard of our old house and watching the planes go by overhead, squinting at them so metallic and impervious, guessing their directions, in that yard with the red oak and the acorns and all the squirrels collecting them like desperate doomsayers. Who will supervise the squirrels when I’m gone? I had to wonder amidst the inevitable panic of going down. I mourned the last day I sat in my sunroom; I’ll miss the way the dependable chill of its tiled floor quickened my practiced walk to the kitchen and back.
At the beach house in Delaware my grandfather gave me a belated birthday card and inside it wrote Keep your passion alive. The skyline came into view from my window seat and I planned a funeral. I watched street lamps flicker and highways twinkle and bedroom lights extinguish and considered booking a night at the Renaissance, just for a front row seat at the runway. Sometimes a bird’s eye view just isn’t enough; I’m sure God sometimes gets bored of omniscience. I feel at home in airports but only after I make it through security.
Allie Wisniewski • 2021
