"Mostly Mary and I discover that God doesn’t expect us to just look up for answers and inspiration, but to our left and right. And before her lifetime of wisdom slips by me in the jet stream, I ask permission to take notes."
Airline passengers inch by me like sardines being shoved into a tiny tin. As always, the endless boarding march reminds me that despite my love of travel, they’re spelling them wrong.
These are air-pains.
I turn to a woman to my left in the middle seat of row 26. “So, where you headed?”
Having just lived through #snowpocalypse2016 in Virginia, I express my condolences. “Sounds awful! I’m so sorry.”
We laugh a moment and I shake her hand. Her name is Mary and I learn she’s traveling alone. After few more good-natured ribs about bouncing a blizzard for a beach, I ask in my best, please-say-no-whisper, “You’re not going to a funeral, are you? Because this would be so awkward now.”
“Sort of,” she sighs, and I want to reach for the air-sickness bag.