Even as the plane lurches forward, closing my eyes to get one last glimpse of how I imagine things would be if the air was a little warmer, I waste no time and begin composing. Even as the de-icing fluid runs straight off the wings, leaving tangerine streaks of orange stained on the silver, I think of rain and lilypad hymns. I am being vigilant. Heeding the warning of the TSA to an extent they didn't have in mind, if I see something, I say something. Even as we break over clouds, and I feel relief at being so high above any final destination, I think of home, which confuses me— could it be Boston, where I have my own bed, and breathe the air of strangers— or is it among theaters and lakes, with the crystals raking my lungs, where I hear my name in the silence? I feel joy only from the newest sensation; the small things forgotten, I cherish as they light up in my mind. It seemed right to endure the cold on my return to Minnesota— but wouldn’t you know it, after three days I took several hot showers a day just to feel good again. So stranded in no certain sky, being shuttled from one half-home to the next, forcing myself to ignore the dull bleating in my chest, it is no wonder that I feel apprehensive thinking of you, whoever you are reading this now.
I want to close an open secret: This all goes away. The spice of new, the salt of old. Even you go away. You fade and twist into one more knot that ties me to port and that’s about it. I can’t go any longer pretending otherwise. We don’t have to be bitter— I’ve saved us from this ugly reveal— but the clouds are pale blue and wispy beneath the sun, I wish you could see it. That standalone sun, hovering like a liquid jewel before the morning, indifferent as ever. Right now we're just two lonely dudes in the sky, and if this string stretched far enough, maybe we’d talk about our celestial bodies and all the angels we’ve seen on our shoulders. But the string never goes that far. Not for those who stand at the end of the dock reaching out their arms, not for those whose coffee burns their hand during turbulence, not for you sitting elsewhere, and certainly not for me.
I want to close an open secret: This all goes away. The spice of new, the salt of old. Even you go away. You fade and twist into one more knot that ties me to port and that’s about it. I can’t go any longer pretending otherwise. We don’t have to be bitter— I’ve saved us from this ugly reveal— but the clouds are pale blue and wispy beneath the sun, I wish you could see it. That standalone sun, hovering like a liquid jewel before the morning, indifferent as ever. Right now we're just two lonely dudes in the sky, and if this string stretched far enough, maybe we’d talk about our celestial bodies and all the angels we’ve seen on our shoulders. But the string never goes that far. Not for those who stand at the end of the dock reaching out their arms, not for those whose coffee burns their hand during turbulence, not for you sitting elsewhere, and certainly not for me.
The man sitting in 35E— the seat beside me, while I can't help but stare out this window— told me that, no matter where I go in life, no matter how sweet my victories, or even sweeter my failures, I would only go to Heaven by accepting God— and the rest of the pitch I've had memorized since I was a boy— and when he asked me if I disagreed with him, I should have said yes— honesty is, after all, more virtuous than faith. If I had told him that sex is the closest we get to God, would we have smiled in some semblance of agreement— his six children might find it plausible— or would that have been it right there, the end of what little we had between us? I would have liked that. Why can’t we all be as honest as a man like that— coming right out with it, pamphlets and all— tell me what you’re trying to sell—
Because the only thing I’ve been trying to sell is care, packaged into neat sentences that you can carry with you. Care with honesty and candor. It’s a delicate commodity to be dealing with. It has no supply or demand, but is still worthy of my full attention, as it’s the only thing that makes this— this one-sided, back-without-forth conversation between us— something worth doing the rest of my life. Maybe you know it, too— maybe you care more than I do, maybe you’ll never let me know how much you care— but regardless only one of us will be here, in the end. You go away. I feel that’s worth mentioning twice.
I don’t mean to be so cold—there’s no ice on the wings, I’m light and blanketed in an ocean of cloud, everything really is incredible when you manage to stay awake and see. I want to breathe in this moment forever, far away from you as I am, unable to cast even a single sound into the stratosphere. I have nothing to waste. I pour my Coke into a cup avalanched in ice, wondering when our end will come. Until then, I care for you. Live confidently. No one knows you. See often, and say with sweeping certainty all that you see. Meet everyone. Praise the brazen, seek no judgment, give without an asking price. Go into the most night-like depths of yourself to find morning, which comes for you only. Wheels are emerging from their hiding places. Take this city and make it a home. No one will do it for you. Please be seated. You won’t die today or for a while. Be careful when opening the overhead bins. Someday, I’ll go this way and you'll go another, clanging tambourines and singing the noise of our thoughts. Today, we’re just figuring out more and more ways to say goodbye.
Because the only thing I’ve been trying to sell is care, packaged into neat sentences that you can carry with you. Care with honesty and candor. It’s a delicate commodity to be dealing with. It has no supply or demand, but is still worthy of my full attention, as it’s the only thing that makes this— this one-sided, back-without-forth conversation between us— something worth doing the rest of my life. Maybe you know it, too— maybe you care more than I do, maybe you’ll never let me know how much you care— but regardless only one of us will be here, in the end. You go away. I feel that’s worth mentioning twice.
I don’t mean to be so cold—there’s no ice on the wings, I’m light and blanketed in an ocean of cloud, everything really is incredible when you manage to stay awake and see. I want to breathe in this moment forever, far away from you as I am, unable to cast even a single sound into the stratosphere. I have nothing to waste. I pour my Coke into a cup avalanched in ice, wondering when our end will come. Until then, I care for you. Live confidently. No one knows you. See often, and say with sweeping certainty all that you see. Meet everyone. Praise the brazen, seek no judgment, give without an asking price. Go into the most night-like depths of yourself to find morning, which comes for you only. Wheels are emerging from their hiding places. Take this city and make it a home. No one will do it for you. Please be seated. You won’t die today or for a while. Be careful when opening the overhead bins. Someday, I’ll go this way and you'll go another, clanging tambourines and singing the noise of our thoughts. Today, we’re just figuring out more and more ways to say goodbye.
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