A restless, violent world and the Holidays cover all possibilities people return home from their winter break. They leave their families, gather new gear, infants dangling, strollers to the side, so many babies, so many wearing new sweaters, carrying our bags, hurrying through Chicago’s O’Hare, four-cheese pizza at the counter people watch, walk to our gate, CNN ceiling-dangling – again; always – men women and children, First Class first, class-class, economy chattel upgrades or smug leather jackets? We sit in the absolute last row takeoff jangling. Next to Sophie who is nine traveling unaccompanied, missing her middle teeth, long, thick hair, pink backpack. She is sad. Her dad lives on Cape Cod and her mom in Petaluma. She has a step there and a step here. She’s quiet and reads over my shoulder when somebody is killed at the irrigation ditch, a slough once made famous, when others die. She seems bored. Silby and I switch seats and they play games, 20 Questions and Mad Libs. Sophie sleeps with her head in Silby’s lap. A young girl seven stands and speaks to the row behind her: “Hi, my name’s Patty and I have diarrhea so we’re going home. I didn’t sleep well last night.” Overhead bin and waiting to disembark. Her parents are embarrassed and they pat her head, incapable of staunching flow.
