As we made our way past the ticket counter the automatic doors whooshed open, nearly sweeping us away in a blast of icy air. It was January in Wisconsin, which means one thing: cold. The kind of cold that hurt the skin, just breathing made people cough. I just kept thinking sun, sand, and above all else: warmth. As we zigged and zagged our way through the unending maze of bodies, we kept looking down at the flight information in my hands.

“Gate B-17, I’m sure of it” I said, none too convincingly apparently, for he kept reading aloud the gates and their destinations.

We reached a fairly quiet section of the airport, and all the sounds became subdued. It had the feel of a library to it: old, peaceful, and

“Right this way please,” she said. We followed her down the steep incline to the plane. The closer we got the louder the noise became, threatening to deafen us. I could see the pilots huddled over the glowing panels in the cockpit, pressing a button here, turning a knob there, and making me feel secure just by looking busy. We stepped into the cabin and the sound became suddenly muffled, like someone threw a wool blanket over us. As we sidestepped down the aisle, I kept glancing over my shoulder into the cockpit, maybe out of curiosity as to what all the flashing buttons did, or maybe to continually remind myself that the pilots knew what they were doing. I sat down and slid over to the window seat, leaving my unlucky brother stuck in the middle. I buckled the cold silver seat belt around my waste and sat back to watch interesting people pass by my seat. I met their stares with stares of my own. What did I care? I was never going to see these people again. Everyone shuffled in place, waiting for those ahead in the aisle to sit down. When everyone was seated and the overhead bins were crammed with bags the plane hummed to life.

“Is that our gate?” I asked. He looked up at the monitor and said, “Flight 182 to Memphis, I think that’s us.”

We s

Some topics in this essay:
B-17 I’m, Halfway Miles, January Wisconsin, pilot intercom, seventeen suitcases,