dramamine and gingerale accompany me to altitude. the non-drowsy version sends me head-bobbing by take-off, while the bubbly stuff rouses me mid-drool for a chat with a hazy flight attendant.
i only drink gingerale when i fly.
well, then, and in holiday-themed ice-cream floats. but i rarely order those in the air.
it’s not just the bubbles i crave when i rub elbows with the beverage cart, my head falling hard from dream to this straddled space. traveling requires such a stepping out. it skews the readings of all normalcy, pulling hesitant routine from its rut, and forcing sleepy skin to face its fear of an uncertain shower head.
like my favorite wizards between portkey and land, i’m less than solid en route.
i hold hands with strangers like terry my-friends-call-me-teaspoon on the back row of her turbulent first steps to freedom. she smells of gin, joints and open-endedness; i float between comforting and wondering. my airport filters of purposed distance disintegrate in her honest questions.
“is this normal?”
dream clouds part just long enough to think, for teaspoon and myself, the answer may be hidden in the wheel wells between take-off and landing.