Touching Down.

Every so often, I open my eyes and find myself breathing. Like so many times before, I find myself waking up while finishing the pages of a book. Annie Dillard's An American Childhood. I'm awakened to my life. The flesh and spirit in my general vicinity. It always surprises me a bit, not realizing that I've missed it so, this eyes-open existence. It's surprising and yet so familiar.

I smile closing the book, cover in my lap. Knees aching. Skin on my arms prickling with bumps, cool and bare. The sunlight coming through the small hole in the plane splashing, pressing itself into my face. The tear ducts under my closed lids threatening to explode sending salty rivulets down my cheeks. These almost tears are not tears of sadness. But would be rivers of comfort and relief. Like waking up to a soft breeze and sunlight blowing through your window on a late spring morning.
I delight in the old man's fabulous tortoise shell glasses in the seat in front of me and in his companion's wonderfully wrinkled, polished fingers resting lightly on the wall beside her. I feel the hum of the bird-machine carrying me toward Denver. And revel in the large scar on the face of the reading man next to me.

We've just touched down. I've just touched down. And not a moment too soon.