Sky

View from Sears Tower.

In the shadow of the John Hancock building.

Pizza, local-style.

Going home.

We saw the four corners of Chicago from Sears Tower. We explored as time allowed, ate tall pizza, and flew through tunnels and over bridges on the train. We flew home.

My Aunt Bette was on our flight.

Aidan and I were seated near the back of the plane. Southwest Airlines does not have assigned seats—boarding is done by groups. The last few passengers were boarding. I watched to see who might be sitting next to us and I noticed a familiar-looking woman walking down the aisle. How odd. She looked like my Aunt Bette—my mom’s brother’s wife. I shouted her name over a dozen rows of heads. She looked up and saw us. A coincidence we will retell over potato salad at future family reunions was born. It was Aunt Bette. She took the empty seat next to me.

What are you doing here? we asked each other.

She was flying from Orlando, via Chicago-Midway, to Denver. My uncle was going to pick her up in Denver and then they would drive the five hours home to Montrose the next day. She had helped my cousin drive a load of things from my Grandma Mary’s house to his house in Florida several days earlier.

Aunt Bette was the first to hear about our adventures. We talked about family, the difficulties of December, future hopes and plans.

Aidan slept most of the way home. The sky outside her oval of thick glass was dark. I’d lean over her and look down at the ground. Sporadic orange twinkling towns were far between and far below. Many times I have been outside at night and looked up to see the blinking lights of a jet and wondered where it was going.

I always figure half the people on board are going home. Half are leaving home. Either way, it’s an adventure.