?
The pilot said, “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. Clear skies today. The temperature here in Kona is 82. The temperature in San Diego is 75. Not much wind today. It shouldn’t be a bumpy flight.” The mic turned off, and then back on. “My copilot here just informed me the volcano has hit Pahoa. Destroyed the new police station and the section of highway at mile marker 79. No casualties—everyone was evacuated in time. Just wanted to let you folks know in case you have family there. That’s it for now. Mahalo.”
“Phew,” Chuck said.
Jed and Cam weren’t paying attention. They were making origami with the barf bag.
“They’re safe,” I said, in awe, like I couldn’t quite believe it.
?
When you’re in a plane, all you can see is sky. You look out the window. You are above the clouds now. The clear blue sky never ends.
Out this window is everything. Inside is you. This is your bag under the seat, this is your book in your lap, this is the way you sit, this is the way you carry your body when you walk to the little bathroom.
Why do the thoughts come now? They always come when you don’t expect them, and every time it feels new. But you’ve had these thoughts before. You remember and forget them. Sometimes you think this is all life is: a process of learning what you have already learned.
If there is no escape. No better destination.
If the horizon’s just a line in space.
If this is all you are.
These are the pants you wore today, but they’re not that comfortable. Next time you take a flight you will wear different pants. Next time you will bring more snacks. This Thanksgiving you will make a pie from scratch, maybe mulberry. And next Thanksgiving you will make it again, and then again the following year. Mulberry pie will become a new Murphy family tradition. And you can make extra pies and give them away. Everything counts, even if you’re the only one counting.
Your reflection in the little mirror is almost too much. You close your eyes. For a minute, or for ten long seconds that feel like a minute, you breathe.
This is the sound of you breathing. This is the sound of the engine. Inside this small space, the air recirculates. It always feels cold. Outside you are rushing through the air so fast. There is always this rushing.
Stay here. Stay calm. Stay still.
Open your eyes.
Do you see me?
You won’t want to see me, but you will.
This is us in the little mirror. This is us inside the runaway plane, trying to stay still.
You splash water on your face, asking it to heal you. All you want is to be healed.
You go back to your seat and you kiss your husband on the cheek. You open your book. You have been meaning to read this book for months. Today is the day.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First, thank you to the town of Kona for being such an easy, warm source of inspiration while I wrote this book. Kona, I love you.
Jenny Jackson, thank you for your wisdom. I’m so happy you’re my editor.
Allison Hunter, your enthusiasm is kind of mind-blowing, and I would be lost without you.
Victoria Chow, Lauren Weber, Emma Dries, Nora Reichard, Maria Carella, and all the people at Doubleday who had a hand in making this happen, I appreciate everything and am lucky to have you.
Special thanks to Mark Huntley for letting me take over his space, and to Annie Piper, whose yoga dialogue is the most inventive I’ve ever heard.
Last, I’m beyond grateful to the kind friends who read early drafts and gave me their feedback. Vauhini Vara, Tasha Tracy, and Jen Silverman, huge mahalos to all of you.