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Red Eye by Karen Rose March 21, 2007 SFO to Chicago to North Carolina my husband leaning against the back of my seat Ruby curled in a fiddlehead next to his big warmth Giulio in the seat next to me, his lanky energy spent the engines roaring to the point—should I worry? in my sterilized-for-my protection blanket, warm but not drowsy surrounded by the nutshell of my little family moving forward, the darkness tumbling below a sonorous group, safe then, a blood orange sunrise I slide up the shade, the skyline of Chicago undiminished its spires and bulk and dark richness on the shining water When I lived in New York, a dozen eggshell years I'd weep each time I flew back from visiting California this, my first visit from my new home in NC I don't cry California, still a jewel, that apparently I can live without this time I'm coming home to my own trees loblollies carpets of them Hawaiian humidity and heat—and a dead battery The captain announces our arrival in Chicago, the temperature the young woman in front of me lifts her eye mask adjusts her neck pillow and spritzes her face with rose water ready to check her voice and email Nobody's mother, I think About the author: I am an artist — an abstract painter originally from the San Francisco Bay Area. I lived in New York City for 12 honking siren-filled years, moved back to California (where I worked for Lucasfilm for 7 years) and now reside in Raleigh, North Carolina. I am married with two children and am in love with the South, in particular with my giant cherry tree that will explode into bloom any day now. I am also a longtime fan of Prairie Home Companion and recently was inspired by Garrison's anthology of Good Poems. | | | |
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