Never in twenty-four years have I been so excited to get on a plane. No trace of the old paralyzing fear crept into my neck as I waited, boarded, and waited. Sitting in line for takeoff at Logan, clutching my armrests, screaming inside my head, "Get us in the fucking AIR, man! Get me the fuck OUT of this place!" I planned upon our departure to flick off the city that has thrown me on such a whiplash roller coaster ride for the past five months.
Then we took off, flying over the harbor and the New England sailboats, watching the city skyline with the evening sun emanating golden beams behind it, and Jesus Christ, why didn't anyone tell my how pretty it all was? We flew along the Charles gaining altitude, and I saw Allston and Brighton. I saw where I sit and watch the rowers when I have to think. I saw my neighborhood. I saw the swirling patterns of the crazy gridless streets.
For two hours, I felt my problems shrink to tiny specks, and I saw again, both figuratively and literally this time, the Big Picture.
Then I came down, and the little pictures came back, but I figured hey, I'm not afraid of flying anymore, so in all of this I must be doing a few things right.