The soft green grass grazed her neck as she lay staring up at the clouds. She was reflecting on their old conversations, the free topic ones-say anything. A tiny cloud took the shape of a castle and she smiled. She would've loved to share this with him. Reflecting back again, she remembered clearly the day she had said she wished she was a superhero and could save the world. Then they'd discussed if it was possible to save the world. The discussion of religion came next-a very lengthy discussion. She loved these conversations though-they actually were about something important, not the kind her and her friends usually had. Her eyes drifted closed, blocking out the blue sky and white clouds. She missed their relationship so much...she could talk to him about anything and he'd understand and know exactly what to say. No one had ever understood her, or even tried before. He was always there for her, even after she'd pushed him away. He never gave up. None of her friends knew what to say, they either said the complete wrong thing or they just didn't say anything at all. She thought of the past few weeks without him and began missing him all over again. Realizing she'd never stop missing him, she allowed the pain in. At least that was something she could feel. She sighed deeply and let sleep overpower her.
I’m the kind of girl you notice in passing during your evening jog. I’m there, the long little shadow on the grass, apparently seeing nothing but the darkening sky above. I’m watching the stars, and the way the clouds move, and I’m watching the airplanes.
I think the airplanes are beautiful in the sky. I think they’re almost more beautiful than the stars, because they don’t just sit there. They’re not constant. They’re always moving, always going someplace. And I’m always wondering when is the next time I will be on one.
I’ve always felt safest in the sky, you see. Even after September 11th I wasn’t afraid of flying. Maybe it’s because I’ve been traveling at least once or twice a year since I was six. My friend Mark has a theory that once a person has been suicidal they never stop being suicidal, and I could see that making sense. His theory says that a person tries subconsciously to kill themselves in other ways. Maybe that’s me, every time I board a plane – maybe my awareness that the plane can crash, that they are not infallible, is actually my subconscious hoping that it will finally just crash and get me over with.
I don’t think I think that, though.
What I like about planes is that they’re moving, but they feel so perfectly, utterly still. You can stare out the window the whole time, watching the snow-tipped mountains and the serene blue of the oceans sliding away, and still not realize that you’re moving. To me that feels like home – moving but not realizing it.
This appeals to me because since I was thirteen I haven’t felt I had a home. I moved to Venezuela from California when I was thirteen, then back to California, and then back to Venezuela, and ultimately back to California, with numerous visits in between. Somewhere between all of the airports, all of the switching schools and the making new friends and trying to catch up with old friends, somewhere among the e-mails and the monthly phone calls, I lost my sense of security.
I was always older than my years. "An old soul," as they say. But moving back and forth, I had gotten too old for my liking. In Venezuela there was no political stability like there was in America, and when I returned to California I couldn’t believe my friends who were panicking over murders that were taking place in Washington.
"But these people, they’re just getting shot, just like that, and no one knows who it is!" they would say. "And Washington’s not that far off. What if he decides to go on the move?"
I’d look at them in disbelief. Losing sleep over a sniper in a different state. I remembered tanks in the streets, fighter planes roaring overhead. I remembered fearing for my friends’ lives, because the army was shooting unarmed innocent protesters, yet they wouldn’t stop defending their country. I remembered being driven to the airport in an armored car.
My experiences were just too out of time, too unlike anyone else’s, for me to fit in. I would come back to Venezuela, tired of smoking weed and drinking every weekend, only to find that that was now the "It" thing to do. More and more I found myself alone in my room at night, talking to people in the country I’d left, yearning for what I thought was home.
I’m in California now, and I still haven’t found my home. I know I won’t find it anytime soon. So in the meantime I lay out on the grass, watching the evening give way to the night, watching as the stars show their wee little faces. And as always I watch the planes, drifting lazily yet purposefully across the sky; and as always, I wonder which one will someday take me home.