Raising the plastic shade on my porthole disclosed little but a grey-white blur. Shaking off my dozing grogginess, I stopped the audiobook drone that had napped me away. The low jostle of turbulence needed some libation and a reminisce through familiar old tunes. After the cobwebs began to fully clear, I seconded my check of the world outside, just as those slow jogging chords began to lilt from the lower middle keys. I found myself transfixed by a vision.
A soft grey floor of woolen tufts extended out to a broad amber halo, which wreathed the edge of the world. Crisp dihedral edges rose against this backdrop, a slanted limb of un-feathered raven. An upturned winglet quavered over the burning Western rim. It played gently at the feet of the great azure vault, which rose unbounded and receded to the endless deep above. And suspended there, motionless as I hurtled in a southward streak, somewhere between space and the false floor of cotton below, the poet began to intone:
Imagine there’s no Heaven
It’s easy if you try
No Hell below us
Above us, only sky
I simply drank in the moment as John Lennon played on. The burden of yesteryear mythology slipped away, even as I watched Helios dance out a final flourish of brilliance. The great concerns of new war and rising plague faded, along with all such noises from below. The battles of cancelled flights and strained projects dissolved into a lightness of mind and a simple hope. I am going home. Home to the faces and the smiles of my everything. Home. It is such a small word to represent the sum of what matters.
Meanwhile, thankfulness rises for many things that I didn’t think I wanted. It took a flight cancellation. It needed a late departure. It required a West-facing window seat. I find myself inconsolably grateful for this constellation of random events, and grateful to have John Lennon and Ian McEwan to keep me company. Meanwhile, the plump and smiling face of 32-E asks me trivialities from time to time. That seems somehow fitting.
Jericho Brisance 
Thanks Matt.
A moment’s meditation indeed makes the world a richer place!
Your writing evokes the lingering imprint of McEwan’s company indeed.
PS. I trust 32-E wasn’t your beloved wife, then. 🙂
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No, 32E was a kindly woman in her mid 50s. My wife was at home with Sam Adams. 😉
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Sam Adams? That bastard!
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He always seems to be at the house. He eventually disappears if I stay there long enough, only to show up again, usually when I’m at work.
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Can I say: sorry Janelle…I didn’t mean to derail the thread that way on to you.
(Though it seems it you have fans! 🙂 )
Back on topic (sort-of), I struggle with Lennon’s ‘Imagine’.
A preacher demolished the song in a sermon many years ago, and I’ve held it in distain ever since. It’s hard to overcome that programming and see it for the beautiful poetry it is. I might have a listen on Youtube and see how I go.
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“(Though it seems it you have fans! 🙂 )” – she does at that —
And by fans, I mean at least her husband and I, and I’ve little doubt, there a plethora more. Like me, she’s more than just a pretty face.
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No, cracking, I’ve seen his wife – she is to wives, as chateaubriand is to a Big Mac!
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Awaiting moderation?!! THAT bites!
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No spam has gotten through since. Once the attempted spam rate drops off, I’ll toggle the moderation off again.
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