Flying

Assembled by coincidence,cramped and airsick,a storm beneath,some two hundred of usare bound by seat beltsand a latent truth:should some bolt, or wire,or circuit fail, we might all sharethe moment of our death.

I've been to a wedding,my niece taking onthat vocation (to quotethe priest's homily)to the future. It so happenedthe wedding took placein the same chapel whereI once stood to speakat my mother's funeral.And then the receptionwas held in the sameoak-paneled hall whereyears ago, as best man, I'd madea toast to separatenessresolved by love.

All weekend, a deepeningsense of circles rounded;or more like spiralsslipping outward, yetreturning—almost—to a point before: brothers and sisters,nine of us, who kneweach other first aschildren, now becomethe elders circling a table,a kind of symbol.

—The pilot interrupts,his voice trying to smooththe bumps ahead;but I'm still holding onto the wedding table: we raiseda glass, we ate a meal,we remembered the dead to life,and laughed our asses off.Growing up, we growinto this—our sure decline,as evidenced by graying hairand worry lines. Stillit was sweet: sweetnessas only time can enableand condemn—sweet,here, alive, together, now—

The plane makes a lurch—hands clasp armrests all around.I'm sure there's nothingthese riders gathered here todaywould want to hear me say;although I believe I'd speakfor all in saying that, soon,we hope to walk the aislelugging our carry-ons,each toward a place that is,to use the pilot's phrase,our final destination.