The view from seat 18A (a window seat)

I saw busy streets become curving lines become traces of civilization become nothing at all. I saw the sunrise over Midwestern farmland. I saw the alto-stratus ceiling become the walls and then the floor, white and fluffing. I saw brown of desert sand become white with falling snow. I saw the snow itself, each unique flake, some of which clung to my window. I saw mountains small as anthills, and eventually thought nothing of them. I saw a thousand shades of green blend together into a blanket of uniformity. And I saw boxes -- proof that humans believe they control this all.

I saw the sun set over an unfamiliar scenery, maybe Mexico; who knows? I saw Orion from above the clouds that blocked its view to most. I have never been closer to the moon, big and full, and yet I have never felt so small. I saw clouds glow with orange, illuminated by lightning. I could not hear the thunder. I saw the ocean become the sky and struggled to make sense of a horizon. How could two things, both seemingly endless, have such a definitive border?

All the while, my mother slept, dreaming of being home, walking our dog down the same familiar street. All the while, my stepsister read, consumed in a land, magnificat and fantastic, that will never exist. And, when we landed, I decided that no dream or fantasy novel could ever be more surreal than the world we live in, the world I have only began to see.