Waiting in Taba

We are all here. In one room, erev Pesach. I

don’t miss the irony, leaving Egypt. Literally,

fleeing Egypt with a plane ticket that says,

mrmrs for my name and I wonder if anyone

has a ticket with a name. But I am too afraid

to ask and push the fear away like I’ve pushed

away the need to pee for already half a day. Too

afraid to lose a place in the dozen or more lines

I’ve waited in today. Thirsty because the last

liquid I drank was before my 4am departure in

the car. We are all here, trying to breathe deep.

Though we know we won’t until we take off,

the wheels retract and the pressure push down,

when we are soaring with a view of the land.

And the sea. We are all here, the young man

to my left on his way to Spain for a meditation

retreat and the woman to my right trying to get

to her sister. She is eating a mandarin and offers

me a slice. My parched throat is desperate for

the liquid which scratches its way down. I say

thank you grateful for the sweetness of the

fruit but mostly for the sweetness of her. We

are all here, the children playing tag and at least

five pregnant women, the famous choreographer

whose piece left me shaking for days and the

actress who was in some tv show I know I saw

but can’t remember—the show or her name. We

are all here, not pushing to the front of any

line, no one will be left behind, and hours later

after a few more lines, when the wheels retract,

when the man sitting next to me, points out the

window and says this used to be an Israeli

airforce base, we all begin to clap. And cheer.

And then silence. Even the babies, quiet.

Flying over desert and sea.