When finally I sat, uncomfortable in my window seat at the back of the plane, my heart started racing uncontrollably. I cozied myself up as much as possible, put in my headphones, and continued to wait. Wait as we wend through the safety procedures in french and english, though this time with line by line translation, rather than the whole story at once like they usually do. Wait as we taxied and then came to a stop, while a funny looking machine "de-iced us." Waited (and watched) as we took off, the sun had gone down, but the city was still relatively light, white and red and green and blue and yellow reflecting off the snow. The canal, ice. The fields, ice. Cold and beautiful - I feel myself trying to plant it in my memory, my brain obviously not yet accepting the fact that it'll be the same - if not icier - when I return. I laugh when the pilot stumbles as he reads the temperature in Vancouver, almost surprised as he reads 4, 4 above, not 4 below, which, for this week, would be just as unbelievable in Ottawa.
Soon the city faded away, and there was black. Black as if the world didn't exist outside the plane. As if the people, now trapped together in 38 rows of an unfathomable machine were all that was left. We settle into our new community, anxiously.
I listened to my audiobook, put on a movie, put on another movie. At one point I glanced out the window to a glorious myriad of lights, I gasp. Suddenly there was a world outside, evidence of life in what had been barren for the last several hours. I look at the map - Calgary. My heart races again. I remember the first time I flew to Calgary. I remember how short the flight is from here to Victoria. I feel my nose getting cold, and realize my face is pressed up against the window, like I maybe did when I was five and it was snowing. Maybe I did that at six, and seven, and twelve, and fifteen. I've definitely done it at 18 too, much to the amusement of my friends, who proclaim that they are from "the land of ice and snow." I stare until I my neck hurts from turning, trying to soak in the last glimpse of the city. I think about my cousins, Aunt, and Uncle. I think about the card that sat on my desk with a post it: write, and mail. I remember that there was actually some sort of life that I left behind as I glued myself to my desk and books for three weeks. I'm tired of sitting down.
Before I know it the pilot's announced there's just half an hour until we land. I look outside, and I can see some light above a mysterious sea of clouds. The clouds protect the city below, blanketing it and hiding it. Separating it from the misplaced life above. Oh if we were meant to fly. The clouds creep up my window, we sink into them, and the world is gone again, but only for a moment, soon there's soft lights dimly shining through the fog. And then there's more. And then I can sea the Christmas lights, the yards completely decorated, flashes and shapes in different colours. Two nights ago I was looking at the parliament buildings in Ottawa, the air crisp, the lights vibrant, and soft but giant shapes - snowflakes - turning the beautiful architecture into a painting as well. I'm overwhelmed.
I wonder what life is going to be outside of the fog. Have things changed too much since I've been away? Has growth created a blanket, will I be trapped separate from the ones I love at home? My anxiety melts away as I realize we're heading down, and the lights become bigger, and I can see the water, a doc - it's lights shining into the sky, and into the water.
I land, debord, and sit now, in the quiet airport, waiting for the last little bit of the journey to Victoria. To home.
There's love at home. There's home at home.
I know it.
