an open letter to my brother mark (montreal:mission accomplished)

From Mark to me, via email:

We saw your plane blast overhead last night, at least I'm pretty sure it was. It flew over our house at about 6:10 and there were no other planes before or after, heading west at any rate. Pretty funny to think you're up at 25,000 feet and we're down here.

The kids pondered that for 10 seconds and went back to the TV, to watch Breakdance to whatever that film is called! Coldest morning yet: -22.

Dear Mark

The plane stayed in the air and that's enough to make me breakdance at the end of the ride. It was a bumpy bastard, but then I am a bump intolerant traveller. I was sitting in the second to last seat, on the aisle, thanks to Allah. Margaret tells me that if you sit in the tail section you feel the bumps more. Who am I to argue with Margaret?

They also say (the all knowing "they") that in the event of a crash, the tail section has the greatest chance of remaining intact. That was a tiny comfort 32,000 (and climbing to 34,000 feet, according to the Captain...)

We watched "The Queen" during the flight. Helen Mirren is so talented. It made me feel better about my own emotional/communicative constipation. I must be part of the Royal Family too:

John: I say Mark, aging is a spot of bother, what?

Mark: Piffle. A stag hunt would be just the thing, no sense pondering the imponderable, what?

John: Quite right.

The young female East Indian child in the seat in front of me put on quite a demonstration of child-like imagination, bounding up and down the aisle, engaging the flight crew in cute conversation that pushed me to the edge. I want silence up above, so that I can tune in to the subtle sounds that signal the coming or going of rough air.

Montreal was, as it always is, a flash. Boom; there. Boom; home again. The trip to Montreal is essentially the long distance version of crossing the street to stop in for a coffee and chat. Mission accomplished. I feel caught up with you family folk back there. My sense is that we all remain better at working than at taking our leisure, and there's nothing special about that. May the passing of time help us to focus on the flowers.

This image kind of penetrated my slight disorientation though: you, Mark, wrapping spidery-legged Julien in your lap, when he came in from outside, red cheeks aglow. Little boy, you call him. This moment is your treasure. I know you know that. We don't speak of it, but I know you know what you have. As do I. Until next time. Be well...
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