plane.
the little girls' body, ebony and small sits quietly next to me for take off.
she sits for awhile, dangling her legs while the plane carries us up.
the pressure makes her ears pop and i can see her swallowing dry spit to make it go away.
her name is kayla, she tells me.
she draws pictures on the small drink napkin we are given.
this doesn't look like enough for a three hour flight. i carefully rip some paper out of the book i am reading,
the first and last pages, the empty ones.
i give them to her.
"never rip pages out of books," i tell her, "unless it's really important. books are really, really special."
she nods.
"how old are you?" i ask her.
"six. i am six." she says.
"i wish i was six."
"that's stupid. you are tall enough to touch the ceiling of the plane. you are lucky"
i laugh because she is right, but mostly because she is wrong. i am not the lucky one.
kayla touches my hair, "why is your hair soft?" she asks me.
"why are your eyes really green?"
i think about her six year old questions and don't come up with many answers for her.
when do we stop asking questions like this? i wonder.
she draws pictures of me on the ripped out pages and tells me to keep them.
pictures of me at work, at a playground. little stick figures with uneven eyes.
kayla falls asleep on my lap, drools on my pillow but i don't mind.
she sits for awhile, dangling her legs while the plane carries us up.
the pressure makes her ears pop and i can see her swallowing dry spit to make it go away.
her name is kayla, she tells me.
she draws pictures on the small drink napkin we are given.
this doesn't look like enough for a three hour flight. i carefully rip some paper out of the book i am reading,
the first and last pages, the empty ones.
i give them to her.
"never rip pages out of books," i tell her, "unless it's really important. books are really, really special."
she nods.
"how old are you?" i ask her.
"six. i am six." she says.
"i wish i was six."
"that's stupid. you are tall enough to touch the ceiling of the plane. you are lucky"
i laugh because she is right, but mostly because she is wrong. i am not the lucky one.
kayla touches my hair, "why is your hair soft?" she asks me.
"why are your eyes really green?"
i think about her six year old questions and don't come up with many answers for her.
when do we stop asking questions like this? i wonder.
she draws pictures of me on the ripped out pages and tells me to keep them.
pictures of me at work, at a playground. little stick figures with uneven eyes.
kayla falls asleep on my lap, drools on my pillow but i don't mind.