Dec. 21, 1992
We took off at four forty-five and sailed past the setting sun like some bad spaghetti western -- all guts, no glory. We lifted, shifted and rolled, as golden filaments of swift wind lit our round windows and the buildings below became boxcars in a child's model railway. Banking, squares of light moved up the cabin and obscured the no-smoking signs. Snow-covered mountains so unlike the Southern California of waving palms saw us off. "Go home," they said, "to warm fires, white Christmases and ice- tipped fingers. You'll never even know you missed us."
© Jessica Minier Mabe