my dreams remind me of an ocean

I’ve always been a bit of a nervous flyer, the little girl who spent her whole flight chewing the cinnamon gum her mom gave her to keep her ears from popping. She would stroke my hair and put a finger to my lips when I asked her how high up we were or why our seat cushions even needed to be floatation devices.

It wasn’t that I was an irrational child. I was just aware of my abysmal luck, even at that age. I knew that if one of the flights leaving the Baltimore airport were to crash on that day, it would be mine. So I snuck a rabbit’s foot in a pair of my socks when my mom wasn’t looking, and said a few hail mary’s before take off and landing. Not because I thought they would help, but because they sure couldn’t hurt.

At twenty years old, I’m still a bit jittery getting on airplanes. I have to drink two black coffees before even thinking about boarding, and I always think about using the fake ID I never use to get one of those outrageously priced mini bottles of white wine. I try not to replay the pilot of LOST in my head over and over, and I try not to count the layers (probably just plastic, insulation, glass, and metal) between me and certain death.

But, after we’re over the Atlantic Ocean, when the black water turns into the welcoming lights of cities and town, I’m glad I got on the plane. There’s no better feeling than trying to figure out which pinprick of light belongs to his house; no better feeling than knowing he’ll be waiting in front of the baggage claim with a sign that says my name; no better feeling than being wrapped up in his arms after nothing but letters and Skype calls for four months.

He makes me feel safe, even when I’m 30,000 feet above the ground.