I wish you could have seen what I saw as wee took off from the Chicago airport. The city spread beneath my window like a giant Christmas display, with twinkling lights stretching in every direction to the horizon. Soon we were so high that even the big semi trucks were nothing but specks moving along the ribbons of interstate. Then we were over Lake Michigan, and in only a few moments all the lights of the city disappeared and everything below us was dark– just black, like we were suspended in the middle of nothing.
But now we are over land again– not Chicago anymore, of course– maybe Michigan. There are lights here but they are softer and more spread out than the bright splash of light and color that was Chicago.
I wish you could see the couple across the aisle from me. They clearly travel a lot and find this whole experience boring. They sat down, strapped themselves in, and started reading magazines. I’m pretty sure they haven’t looked up even once since then. I wonder how often you have to fly to feel like a magazine is more interesting than the electric beauty of the city from above. I think I feel sorry for them. I hope I never get so bored with this beautiful world that I stop pressing my face to the window when I fly. I hope you never do, either.
How I wish you were here with me somewhere over America, with your sweet little noses wonder-stuck to the glass, your eyes sparkling as you took in the loveliness of this world. Tonight I’m seeing all this through your eyes– or I’m trying to– and it is amazing and magnificent and dazzling and beautiful. Oh, this world is beautiful. And you make it a little bit more beautiful, you know, with your laughter and your imagination and your joy so contagious.
And once more I come back to this truth– somewhere over America– that I am one spectacularly blessed mama.