When flying, I'm always sure to book a seat at the window, on the wing. It makes me feel more anchored, for reasons I've yet to discern, and I've never been afraid of heights. On my flight out of Boston the morning of December 15, 2013 – the flight taking me home to Michigan for the holiday, which left an hour late - they doused my wing in some soapy solution that was green. Green, like Christmas, like the Atlantic just to my right, like the tiny shining lights nestled, by some aviation magic, into the runway pavement. While a crew took their time de-icing the plane designated to take me to my home soil, my wing became so jealous, it glowed.
There's something very peculiar about caging a heart inside your ribs that is, decidedly, divided perfectly in half between two cities. Two states. Two homes, each touching cold water, each boasting a lineage no one else can touch. And when my flight finally leapt off that eastern runway and I turned to watch the waves, that green solution turned into ripples, sliding off the wing so quickly it was like it was never there at all. It left a hue, all the rest coagulating with the snow on the ground in Boston. Within moments I saw all of it - the buildings I'm learning, the bridge near that place they align with a garden, the roads bending - ever Colonial - to the apartments on Sutherland where I had left most of my love. And then it was all gone, kept secret by clouds, that city and that green.
It hurt, ever so slightly, leaving New England again for the only place I've ever honestly adored and understood. My green wing and I, parting the clouds, jealously turning our backs from a city we are afraid to admit we belong to.
Oh, to have a love so strong it spans the jet stream.