What We Keep

Outside the airplane window the clouds are thick and rippled, unbroken as acres of land. They are suffused with peach-colored, early morning sun, gilded at the edges. Across the aisle, a man is taking a picture of them. Even the pilot couldn't keep still"Folks," he just said, "we've got quite a sunrise out there. Might want to have a look." I like it when pilots make such comments. It lets me know they're awake. Whenever I see a sight like these clouds, I think maybe everyone is wrong; maybe you can walk on air. Maybe we should just try. Everything could have changed without our noticing. Laws of physics, I mean. Why not? I want it to be true that such miracles occur. I want to stop the plane, put the kickstand down, and have us all file out there, shrugging airline claustrophobia off our shoulders. I want us to be able to breathe easily this high up, to walk on clouds as if we were angels, to point out our houses to each other way, way, way down there; and there; and there. How proud we would suddenly feel about where we live, how tender toward everything that's oursour Mixmasters, resting on kitchen counters; our children, wearing the socks we bought them and going about children's business; our mail lying on our desks; our gardens, tilled and expectant. It seems to me it would just come with the perspective, this rich appreciation. I lean my forehead against the glass, sigh. I am forty-seven years old and these longings come to me with the same seriousness and frequency that they did when I was a child. "Long trip, huh?" the woman next to me asks. "Oh," I say. "Yes. Although . . . Well, I sighed because I wish I could get out. You know? Get out there and walk around." She looks past me, through the window. "Pretty," she says. And then, "Of course, you'd die." "Oh, well. What's not dangerous?" "Beats me," the woman says. "Not food. Not water. Not air, not sex. You can't do anything. Well, maybe put your name on the list for Biosphere." We smile, ruefully. She's pretty, a young blond businesswoman wearing a stylish navy-blue suit, gold jewelry, soft-looking leather heels now slipped off her feet. At first, she busied herself with paperwork. Now she's bored and wants to talk. Fine with me. I'm bored, too. "Do you ever think that this is the end of the world?" I ask. "I mean, don't get me wrong" "Oh, I know what you mean," she says. "I do think about that. Dying planets, how . . . unspecial we are, really. Just the most current thing in the line since paramecia." The flight attendant stops her cart beside us, asks if we'd like a drink. This seems petty, considering the content of our conversation. Still, I request orange juice; the woman beside me says she'd like a scotch. "You know what?" I tell the flight attendant. "I think I'll have a scotch, too." I have always wondered who in the world would want a cocktail on an early morning flight. Now I know: people with a load on their minds that they would like very much to lighten. After my seatmate and I have pulled down our trays and set up our impromptu bar, I say, "I don't even like scotch." "Me neither." She shrugs, takes a sip, grimaces. "But I really hate flying. Sometimes this helps." I smile, extend my hand. "I'm Ginny Young." "Martha Hamilton."Berg, Elizabeth is the author of 'What We Keep', published 2002 under ISBN 9780345435026 and ISBN 0345435028.