I ran across this poem in all the sorting when we were moving out. It was written and published in the school calendar when I was in the seventh grade and was about visiting my dad in Alaska in the summers. After a very dramatic court battle at age eight which I unfortunately remember quite well my dad won six-week visitation rights. I thought this was fantastic, as my dad let me watch TV, play video games, eat straight butter, and sleep until noon. Now, though, I get why my mom was not so on board with certain elements of the arrangement, like putting me on a plane–indeed, a series of planes–to fly across the country, all by myself. Ack, you know? But she had no choice. As it happened, I only have fond memories of those long trips and all in all I appreciate the traveling temperament and skills fostered by the experience. Anyway, here’s the poem:
I have now arrived.
I get impatient.
I want to get off this plane.
I strain to see the stewardess who will come and get me.
I think, for a dumb reason, those unfortunates like me who fly unaccompanied by an adult often have to wait for a long time to get off the plane because of a rule which says those under 14 must always be accompanied by a flight attendant until they reach their final destination, which, in my case is Anchorage.
I hate this, because I know the Atlanta, Salt Lake, and Seattle airports almost by heart. Finally
I see her. She smiled tiredly and shouts at me to get in front of her, to get my ticket, and to get off the plan if I’m the Frequent Flier Unaccompanied Child.
I shout back, Yes!
I comply with her request to get in front of her, and she hands me back my ticket over my shoulder.
I say thanks, and move off the great steel machine onto the walkway, and the static electricity in my stomach jumps 30 volts.
I strain again, this time to see Dad.
I spot him and walk faster.
I soon run, maybe hug, say hello, how are you? Great, I’m fine, the flight was okay, I sat by this weird lady who…etc., brief him on the tactics of annoying busy businessmen, saying anything except how good it is to see him. He signs the ticket quickly, and we get the luggage, can we leave?
I want to tell him how nice it is to see him, to stop pretending that it’s cool I haven’t seen him for so long. Only as soon as we leave the airport in his “Pregnant Rollerskate” do
I let my guard down. Now
I have arrived. Now
I’m the center of attention.
