Planes in the Night

I was thinking the other day about someone I met the last time I was on a plane.  I was on my way home from a family wedding, but though I was flying with my brother and sister, they were across the aisle from me, so I was sitting between two strangers.  On my right was a young woman who kept her hood up and her headphones on the whole flight, adhering to the usual policy of ignoring your seatmate on a plane.  On my left, however, was a man who apparently didn’t believe in that policy.  He was tall, not a big man, but someone who seemed to take up a lot of space nonetheless.  Some people are like that.  He was in his thirties, I’d guess, wearing baggy clothes and a stiff-brimmed cap, but contrary to the conclusion I’d drawn from his clothing, he carried a stack of books onto the plane with him.  One of them was a journal, which immediately caught my attention.  Like me, he spent most of the flight writing.  We talked a little bit about it, and it wasn’t the usual banal small talk that makes me cringe.  I never learned his name, but I will always remember him.

There have been others I’ve met on planes who have stuck with me.  On my very first flight, as a seven-year-old flying to Houston alone to visit my aunt and uncle, I sat next to a businessman—late forties, suit and tie, receding hairline.  He played tic-tac-toe and hangman with me in his leather-bound notepad.  On the way home a college student had the window seat, an Asian-American girl with sleek hair cut like a bell around her face.  She talked to me about college, what she was doing, and what I liked to do or might want to be when I grew up.  When I flew to (or from) Europe the first time (or the second time) there was a German family behind me, flying with their young baby.  By now, that baby will be at least six, maybe eleven years old.  I still remember the faces I made through the seats at him, a secret from his parents to make him laugh.  Does he remember, too?

It’s strange to me to think about these people now.  I’d like to thank them for their compassion and my memories, to express my appreciation that they let down their barriers for a while.  I’d like to tell them that I’m grateful they didn’t pretend that we are all strangers, that they were willing to dive into the common ground we all share as human beings.  I’d like to, but I don’t know any of their names, nor where they are now or what their lives are like.  We crossed each other’s paths for the barest moment, and the chances we’ll get back are infinitesimal.

But this world has a lot more miracles than we think.  Maybe one or all of these people will find this blog someday and remember the tiny girl with big hair and big eyes, talking about stories and dreams.  Maybe they stop to think about me occasionally too, and wonder what I’m doing with my one life.  Because at one point we flew together, and that should be something worth remembering.