My mother would sing about heights whenever my father packed his bags for a week-long business vacation. I knew he could not travel with us because he wanted to spend time with his girlfriend. Sometimes, I wondered what my mother would do if I nailed her palms on our oldest tree trunk.
I could not decipher the words she would mum, but it felt heavy; as if there is a darker sorrow in the midst of death. She would pick up the broken shards of her pot after my father threw it at the wall, fold the laundry with her trembling fingers or repress the rush of tears because I was nearby. I could not understand her at all.
At 40,000 feet above, I can see the ocean of clouds and the shifts of the blue lines. Forty-five minutes left before my feet kiss the pavements of Milan. I was through with my divorce papers, yesterday; I wanted a trip to luxury—so I did.
For the first time after my mother’s death and my third divorce, I let my lips do its magic—a wide stretch.
“Would you like something to drink, Madam?”
The flight attendant has an inviting aura. Instead of a drink, I ask her about the onboard entertainment device before my seat. “Do you have any songs about heights?”
When her brows furrow, I send my laughter.
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