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Airplane Meditations In Three Elbow Parts
Humerus:
Consider the airplane
armrest.
About three inches in
length
not much more. Enough
for two adults to share
peacefully. But, the man sits
next to me, and the
armrest
is lost. The land I
inhabited
with an intention to
share
becomes developed by his
elbow and arm
sheathed in a cheap,
sweaty suit. His claim is
staked. My knees pressed
tight, like
Momma always taught,
watch with horror
as his knees so casually
flop apart
pushing past his allotted
amount into mine
with not even a pause for
consideration. See,
since birth, all space
has been his. He
was never told, “not your
place” or “not
enough space”. His body
left the womb
on a mission to fill
larger spaces. His birthright.
“What a big boy! Mommy’s Big Man!”
they told him.
Now, we don’t talk about
it.
There is nothing to
discuss. No negotiations
or questions. The armrest
belongs to him.
His hand drops to scratch
between his
open legs – a space I
assume to be
about three inches in
length and
not much more.
Ulna:
I place my hands into my
lap
and close my eyes. The
man
behind me is slamming his
hands down
onto the back of my
seat. He is telling the
man
next to him about the
fifty pound
King Mackerels he caught
and stacked like logs
covered with ice in his
boat. I try to imagine
him hanging from a hook
by his expensive silk
tie.
Radius:
I notice through the
airplane window
the setting sun behind
the Adirondack
mountains. Gray clouds
sneak through the pink
and golden light. The
sun’s last round stretch.
I smile and think that at
least for the moment
they cannot touch the
land or the water and like
me, can only take their
place
in God’s high, clear,
spacious sky.
Rebecca Frye
Email: Rebecca Frye
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