Think My Goodbyes

Three chimes awake me from my rocky slumber. Six hours in, I am compressed in the smallest space known to man - the airplane middle seat - and made alert just in time to hear these words from the overhead speakers:

“The seatbelt sign is now on.” The captain breaks from his pre-written speech to simply say, “Brace for impact.”

I’ve flown from Heathrow to JFK a million times. I’ve sat in probably every seat in this plane. Never have I heard those three words in that order (outside of, like, Final Destination).

A little boy’s high-pitched voice echoes throughout the plane. Clutching his teddy bear tight, he asks his mom, “Mommy, are we going to die?” And instead of reassuring or even dismissing him, she hugs him tight and sobs violently, screaming loud enough that all of heaven and earth could hear her. Despite the annoyance that most people choose as their carry-on baggage, no one yells at her or tells her to be quiet. We’ve all read the news.

We’ve all seen the headlines, at least. 94 aviation accidents in this year alone, and it’s only March. I try to reassure myself by looking at the plane’s map, hoping to see that we’re right on track. We are not. We are somewhere above Canada, a dotted line deviating from the plan.

“Can you turn that off,” says the man next to me, sweat pouring through his white button down. “I don’t want to know.” And so I relinquish the only feeling of control I have, returning to the movie screen.

A scientific study should be done on the movies people choose to watch in these “last moments” (if that’s what this is). The tearful boy is currently sedated with Monsters Inc. - and who am I to fault him for that? But the man next to me has put on Titanic - what, to replace one tragedy with another? Sir, is that the way you would’ve preferred to go out? Or do you just

have a thing for DiCaprio? Either way, it seems like a questionable choice.

But who am I to talk? I’m spending my final moments judging those around me. I haven’t even let myself think about her yet. And I won’t. It’s not over til they say it’s over.

And then the plane begins to shake, and I feel like I’m on the drop tower at Six Flags - we could go up or down at any moment, and all anyone can do is scream. Strangely enough, the mom does, but the boy is too entranced with the round green monster on his screen to react.

It is at this moment that I finally believe it’s real. That I left the States a week ago and I would never see it again. I’d never get to tell my parents goodbye. I’d never get to spend one more night in my hometown, in my childhood bedroom, hoisting my dog onto my bed because he can’t jump that high. I’d never get to see the lights of Times Square again, even if they were almost in my sights. And I’ll never see her again.

I don’t want to think my goodbyes to you. Despite my love of words, they now become puzzle pieces scattered across the floor, and I struggle to put them in the right order as they slide across the ground. Like making a friendship bracelet, I take each word and pull them onto the invisible string that ties me to you.

It is time that I be real with you. I am in love with you.
Irrevocably in love with you.

The word “irrevocably” is poignant, meaning “in a way that cannot be changed,” or “final.” This is true. I would have loved you “til death do us part,” no matter how much road was in front of us. I wanted forever. But this is all I have.

I don’t have the privilege of watching you walk down the aisle (or even asking the question if you would). We won’t get to start our family. I won’t even get to come home to you.

Upon reflection, I guess I am the lucky one. I will never have to learn to live without you.

But as the plane trembled violently, the engines sputtering out, I can’t help but think, No, fuck that. I wanted a life with you. These six words are the ones I keep repeating, loud enough to distract Mr. Titanic from his film.

“So did he, mate,” He says, gesturing to DiCaprio paused on the screen. The color drains from my face as I realize he’s right. The fictional character he represents is symbolizing what all of us will become - victims of a tragedy, losing our hopes, our dreams, and our individuality to a plane that couldn’t stay in the sky.

When they calculate the statistics of the crash, they will label us as purely numbers, tally marks of the deceased marked by these full seats. They will not bother to save the boy’s teddy bear from the rubble. The sweaty man next to me will be buried here, in his soaking-wet shirt. And they will not be able to read my mind to convey all the goodbyes that I won’t be able to say out loud.

“We will now be taking a controlled descent into Canada,” the pilot says quickly as we simultaneously slam into the chair in front of us. The plane dropped sharply and I clung to my armrests like my life depended on it (because, well, it does). Out of nowhere, the oxygen masks dropped from the ceiling, and we were encouraged to put them on. Disregarding all the airline safety videos, the mom helped her son put the mask on before putting it on herself. I never thought I’d have to use one, yet here we are. I look around at this full flight with matching orange beaks and wonder what the odds were of all of us being here at the same moment, the same time, the same ending. I’m spiraling again.

But when I close my eyes, it’s you. It’s always been you. I close my eyes in crisis and you’re reminding me to breathe. (You’re the only one who ever could, come to think of it). I breathe in and breathe out and suddenly I see Manhattan. Our Manhattan. The apartment we dreamed of in Hell’s Kitchen with a little upright at the bottom of the stairs. I’d sit down and play you tunes nearing on a hundred years as you put your arms around me.

The seatbelt begins to constrict

as you put your arms around me

and it’s getting harder to breathe

as you put your arms around me

The metal groans under the pressure

I think I see Manhattan

but only when I close my eyes.

Mr. Titanic is blocking the window, yet he is too entranced in his film to even look outside. I don’t want to look either, come to think of it. Let me spend my last moments in my imagination - where I can run into your arms at JFK airport, and even propose with a ring pop from Hudson News because I don’t want to spend another moment without you.

Yet that is how I’ll spend my last minutes. Flipping across the air, surrounded by strangers, with all these words left unsaid. The ground rushes closer and closer and closer.

I think I see Manhattan.

William Flejter (2006) is an author, musician, and UMass Boston Student. With poetry and prose, he captures the world as it is, then asks the question - how can it be better? You can follow him on Instagram at @therealwillflejter.