There were two other planes ahead of us on the runway. I watched them, one at a time, as they started down the paved path that seemed to go on forever, picking up speed and then leaping into the air as if they weighed no more than the knock-off Louis Vuitton sunglasses I held in my hand. Airplanes had always fascinated me. Not these big commercial jets as much as the smaller personal planes, but still...
If Peter was still alive, I would have asked him to teach me to fly his 4-seater Cessna.
I stared out the inadequate rectangular window. The clouds seemed to be resting on the most flawlessly-clear sheet of glass, hundreds of miles above the earth. The sun reached in and warmed my hand.
I missed him.
I was only 14 when Peter died. 18 years ago. God. Had it really been 18 years? I didn't really understand why I missed him so much. My grandparents were gone too. I loved them just as much, but didnt miss them in the same way. It didnt really make sense to me, except that somehow I felt that Peter and I were the same. Somehow I knew that when my uncle died, I lost the one family member to whom I would have felt the most connected. I felt a little cheated that I didn't get to tell him about my life. I wanted him to know about my boys. I wanted him to keep up with my photography and my achievements.
He was a brilliant man. An engineer for Boeing. A graduate of MIT. I thought he would have been proud of me.
Peter was smart. Witty. Fun. He had a gentle heart but was so obviously strong. He refused to go to church.
He loved wine and jokes and told the best ghost stories.
He died too young. A heart attack. Alone in his car. If someone had just found him sooner... If it had just happened at home instead...
It wasn't fair. And as much as that complaint means nothing in the world of chance and injustice, it was still MY sound complaint. It just wasn't fair.
The sound of the fasten seat belt sign turned my thoughts to what was coming.
Baggage claim. Rental car. Work.
I put my memories away for another day.
