The takeoff just sacred the beer buzz out of me.
Very high above the ground and my text message to Annie won’t send. Would it in first-class? Not unless I pay for a sky phone.
I haven’t seen New Orleans from above since my birthday. It still gives me butterflies, like it did that first time I left after a visit, looked down with sentimental tears welling up behind my sunglasses, and swore I’d live there some day.
Now, flying over lake Pontchartrian, part of the reason for one of “the greatest human tragedies,” I’m proud my house is down there somewhere -- as if my approval can somehow make it heal faster. As if I deserve a medal of bravery for living there the last eight months.
New Orleans helps you live an incredible life. It’s like you have one-up on the rest of the world on drinking, danger, suffering, laughing, freedom, and the absolutely ridiculous. But it’s only when you leave, the second that plane lifts off the runway even, that you realize it -- and feel either remorse, embarrassment, or elation.
I wonder what New York would have been like the last few months. I probably wouldn’t have broken my rib, but then, life’s not as sweet without some excruciating bodily pain every once in a while.
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