Border Anarchists: Flight

It was somewhere over the heart of Africa that the woman on the plane cried out. “Help me. Someone. Please help.” Her desperation choked shared uncomfortable slumber awake into the garish yellow of overhead lights. I don’t remember her husband’s name even though she said it over and over as she tried to shake him from the froth-covered pit into which death had funneled. Waiting. Later the stranger next to me would offer me his shoulder to sleep on with an inappropriate smile. Later, starting to pass out, I would crawl over tray tables to try to escape the silent aftermath. I crouched by the bathroom door and for the first time in my life I was terrified of flying.