Integrity

On my way to Oregon, I am seated in an exit row.

I feel lucky. I can scooch to the edge of the seat and stretch my legs out straight; the flats of my feet prop on the wall in front of me. A perfect fit. The flight attendant gives me a blanket and I'm in a little bed.

There is no window in the exit row, just a small circle of thick magnifying glass in the plane door. As we taxi and take off (my favorite part) the world falls away and I have only my sense of hearing.

Of feeling.

There's a rumble. A lift in my stomach like falling in love. The plane gathers that impossible speed and I am in the sky.

I sleep the first few hours. Sometimes stretched out. Sometimes curled in a ball.

When I wake up and have coffee in a teeny tiny airline cup, my seat mate and I begin to chat.

I have misjudged her. I thought she was younger than me. Maybe traveling on her own.

She's beautiful. Unlined skin. A Preceptor of Statistics at Harvard. Her husband is seated seperately, but visits her periodically with snacks and kisses. He's a native New Yorker-that I pegged instantly-and a researcher and developer of an electronic technology called super conductivity.

His goal? To make a train that moves so quickly it floats over the rails.

My seat mate has misjudged me, too. She thinks I'm a college student. She doesn't believe I have two children until I show her pictures. She oohs and ahhhs over Zoe's cheeks. Zach's lego towers. We talk about Boston. About our love for cities and good food and culture.

She is flying to Japan to visit her parents. She sips water in small bursts. Jokes that it takes her an hour to eat an ice cream.

When we are on the ground, my new friend and I say goodbye.

My visit to Oregon is productive. I have honest conversations.

I stay in my grandparents' retirement community. I play Bingo. I sit on a bus tour of the Portland countryside with 25 octagenarians. Pearl, a sweet woman who can't speak or hold her head up, sits next to me. She seems cold. I cover her with my fleece.

The old people move so slowly that I am challenged to keep up.
They touch my hands.
My hair.

I buy a delicate necklace with a silver and gold sparrow.

I sleep in my own room within the community. I can hear wheelchairs and click-clicking walkers outside my door.

I run or walk frequently to keep my head quiet; to help me digest the fact that one day I might be Pearl.

I text with my best friend.

My Aunt brings us to Multnomah Falls. I take a picture while feeling frozen in the spray of the water.

The goodbye as I wait for my cab is hard. Final, feeling.

I speak to my children on the ride back to the airport. Zoe asks me to come swimming. Zachary tells me he has fallen in love with "sour and sweet sauce" since I've been gone.

I get a tea for the plane ride. Sit in a window seat and snap photos of Mt. Rainier. Mt Adams. Mt. St. Helen.

The mountains rise above the clouds.
The sky is blue.
I feel clear.

My seat mate is young--this time I am sure. Probably mid-20's. A red hooded sweatshirt. He sleeps most of the way. I touch his shoulder and climb over him when I have to go to the bathroom.

I finish my tea and listen to some music. A song called Broken Things. One lyric sticks with me: tell me what it is you think you're missing/ I will see what I can find.

I am almost home.