April 21, 2015

hovering over Albany

It's not the destination we intended, but a stubborn thunderstorm keeps blocking
traffic, and instead of a final descent, the pilot has us in impotent circles 13,000 feet
above Manhattan. We're restless after 6 hours in the air, fingers smudged with magazine ink, 
seat pockets padded with spent wrappers. I've never been more ready
to be home. And yet, an intercom announcement tells us otherwise, and we head north
for a city I always pass through on the way to somewhere else, my gaze perennially turned
from its broken industry, hollow old buildings gashed with graffiti. But now, apparently, 
it's going to save us, and we slice our altitude in two. I hear the familiar grind of wheels
unlocking from the belly of the beast, and we're arcing forward in our seats, delirious
with anticipation and relief, the lights of the runway sparkled with rain, winking us closer.