Leaving town – two hours in a taxi,
hand clamped to the passport
compartment of my messenger bag.
Late evening head nods and rolls,
repeatedly I jerk awake.

Check-in not yet open,
weighed down with bags,
I hover over tomorrow’s news.
The happening,
I know nothing about,
hasn’t happened.

Aisle seat request granted,
special meal confirmed,
security anxiety as I grapple
and jostle ipad, iPhone,
laptop and kindle onto and
into grey x-ray conveyor.

Relieved of luggage,
I wander duty free,
stare at price tags
on luxury baggage.

Gate opens – wait to board,
last text checks,
kindle chapter read,
press boarding pass
between fidgeting fingers.

Seat found, ritual begins,
everything in place for
the dismissed seat belt sign.

*PING*

Unclip, reach under seat,
open bag, flight socks on,
inflate neck cushion,
moisturize face and lips,
blanket over me,
eye mask with pinkish purple letters
reads: “Shhh – I’m sleeping!”

Sleep comes easier with experience,
sensory deprivation a must,
no in-flight entertainment,
just close my eyes and
mundane minutes and miles
melt into dreams.

Tonight red-eye sleep comes easy,
I welcome unconsciousness –
flight may pass quickly.
Is it just me? Or does
the whole cabin seem subdued?
I close my eyes…

Slipping into ignorant slumber,
I don’t know who controls the plane,
I don’t know where we may be going,
I don’t know why or what for.
Oxygen deprived sleep steals
all knowledge of this boring
Boeing death.

Having frequently flown via Asia, I couldn’t help imagining and empathising with those passengers on board MH370. It wasn’t my intention to speculate as to what may have occurred, but to reflect on the type of passenger I am. My thoughts are with the passengers and their friends and family who wait on firm news.