I’m on the airplane now. It smells like grass, which is strange because they usually smell so sanitized, as if the flight attendants go through after the cabin has been filled up with people and spray it down with some scentless eliminator to rid it of that hot, personable smell.
The flight attendant is bleating instructions and my window is squeaking. I hope it’s not going to squeak the entire way back to Minneapolis. I’m looking out at the layout of the airport, so much like a set of veins and arteries, and if you don’t look over to where the city looms nearby, it could be anywhere. The landscape below you could be anywhere. It’s grids and blocks and streetlights and then it is countryside and water. New York turns into Chicago which turns into home.
We are going to take off soon and this love letter will…
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