100 Words on Airplanes

An hour late, we arrive.                        A mile away, the next

gate stands. I plow                               through the aisle and

people jump into                                  the laps of flight attendants.

 O’Hare is an enormous ‘H’ and I am at the bottom left foot, my

plane at the upper right. In a dance of airport chaos, I navigate

the moving walkway through a tunnel of psychedelic neon

lights more fit for a                             rave. I sprint up 147  

steps to avoid the                              escalator and run pell-mell

to the giant grey door                         she swings forward. WAIT!

I stick to my seat as                           we rumble down the runway.