Flight 348, Atlanta to Sacramento

Glancing over at the Gen Zer sporting crimson stilettos
kitty corner from me in seat 23C, I notice the brim
of her ball cap is pinned with crossed rifles. My regard soars
given she’s a military sharpshooter, but when my glasses
post, the rifles morph into fairy wings and outstretched legs
along with other fairy miscellanea, done in steel-colored
embroidery, which makes me wonder whether I really
should have confessed to the lady next to me, in 24E,
that I closed the overhead bin indicating it was full;
even though with four hard thrusts, she was able
to force in one more paramecium-like bag
and a purple nylon rain coat, all the while issuing
wren-like tsks about “those selfish folks who close
overhead bins when they’re not full.” But my fear
of damaged items is legit — I have four 80-year-old
fountain pens sequestered in my semi-soft carry-on.
Pens glowing with the wisdom of lined hands
that turned antique celluloid, and the certainty
of Art Deco and Parker permanent blue-black ink.
Scanning forward, I’m abruptly flown back to 1982,
because this chaste Airbus 320 from Toulouse
has a smoking/no-smoking symbol above every seat,
which makes me wonder, if any country is so uncaring
it still allows smoking on commercial jets? Then the corners
of my mouth tug themselves upwards, preventing me
from saying aloud “how very French this is”,
while my pancreas exudes a small hit of insulin-based tranquility,
and I realize that sometimes, contentedness is as simple
as suddenly noticing the seven-month-old baby
in the row behind me, who slept through the entire flight —
her lips, swallow’s…