We are entering turbulence, says the captain.
This plane does not do well with turbulence.
His voice crackles over the loudspeaker
just after the plane has begun to jostle in the sky.
I am not particularly worried about the plane.
The young engineer next to me in 14E has already
assured me that when considering safety factors,
the designers will double what is actually needed.
I am more worried about the captain’s choice of words.
It matters what we say to each other and how.
The ride will be turbulent, that would have sufficed.
Or perhaps, The ride will be turbulent,
it’s nothing to be concerned about.
The toddler in row 11 is screaming.
She would not feel better, regardless what
the captain said. Perhaps it is the mother in me
that longs to disregard the safety belt sign and go comfort her—
not so much for the child’s sake, but for her mother’s,
she looks so careworn and tired. I want to tell her,
It’s okay. This is just a short chapter.
I settle for a nod and a smile.
The truth is the world is full of turbulence.
The truth is it’s hard to hear anyone cry.
The truth is our work in the world
begins with comforting the people next to us,
strangers only until we take the first step.
