The Flight

It seems that not so long ago was that flight, crossing an ocean to destiny. My memory is still quite vivid, and I can still watch those pearly white fleeces of cloud sail under me, feeling my ears tingle with the low hum of people's chatter. It was the second of three instances in my life where both of my parents were on board on the same flight, which seems vulgar, but honestly is not. Most of the time, my father was away, traveling for work, sending us pictures of sprawling cityscapes, awe-inspiring landscapes, and whatnot.

Those pictures were really only angled shots of a scrawny thicket, or a cluster of buildings. Somehow, he managed to take pictures and remarkably beautify these small, what some people might even call undignified things. However, that was all it took to send my mind spiraling, cast off into a world of paradise where we could all go together on wild, jovial adventures. Little did I know then that I was already on an adventure, though one can hardly describe it as a jovial one.

Of course, there were many years in which we were allowed to live in real landscapes, but we, being immigrants, never really understood the fragile wisp of string that connected us to pleasure. That string was abruptly cut when the thought of an exit came to Britain's mind, supposedly to purify the land. I suppose that the land we were living on wasn't sterilized, although I still doubt it will be, even now, after we were forced to leave.

I am sure that period was one of great uncertainty for my parents. I, of course, was barely taller than a doorknob, although I more than fulfilled my role in listening through cracks, and gleaning minute threads of information. Knowledge may be power, but it is also a burden, and at the time, I did not have to share it. However, my parents did. They must have been wringing their hands excessively, and deepening their furrow, or at least racking their brains. How they ever concealed most of it from me I will never know, and I do not want to know.

Eventually, they managed to find a sliver of light at the end of quite a lengthy, winding tunnel. They pushed through spider traps of documents, and crocodiles of officers, finally emerging into whatever light the sliver had to offer. It was America, the land of the free.

I was told that we were moving, but that did not make much of a difference to me. We had already moved at least three times in my presence, so another move was just one more adventure for me. Then I was told that we would be crossing an ocean. Suddenly, that adventure became an expedition.

That flight to me is like the Mayflower to the pilgrims, a journey through masses of foggy fleece, while Destiny still hides on the other side, not wanting to be revealed.