On the filthy metal interior,
Carver’s book lay open on page 143.
I’d glimpsed it momentarily
as I wiped the dust from my eyes.
By this point, I was chewing sand,
and my underwear was riding my backside.
I looked out over the desert—
the sun baking the air—
and for a moment,
I thought I saw the New York skyline.
And then I thought I saw you out there
in that inferno—almost jumped out to get you.
I would’ve jumped out of that thing to get you, you know.
It would’ve been about six o’clock in the evening
where you were.
I pictured you at home with the dog,
the radio humming softly in the background.
Our ETA was forty-five minutes.
The flight had been a real smoothie so far.
I picked up Carver’s book
and stuffed it back into my pack.
Exhaled.
Closing my eyes,
I drifted in and out,
and in and out,
and in and out,
to the roaring hum of the propellers,
holding us high above the dunes—
those red-hot, biblical dunes.