Fly Boys

Hopping on a plane early in the morning seems like a pretty cool thing. Air travel always seemed like such a great way to travel. I was well into my thirties before I would give up the window seat without a fight. My father died in a plane crash and all of a sudden, that whole mystery of flight thing disappeared.
This is especially true of the early morning United Airlines flight from Oakland to Denver. That's the plane I took to get out to Colorado to have last tag on my dad. I have a very distinct, visceral memory of the gate, the carpet, and the men's room adjacent to where we departed. I have no memory whatsoever of the flight. Again, this is odd, since I can remember at least small details of virtually every other plane trip I've taken since my teens.
I even have an amusing tale of my older brother's first plane ride. The jet pushed away from the gate, and he was strapped firmly in his seat, eyes wide with anticipation. They taxied across the tarmac to get in line for takeoff, and came to a stop to wait their turn. My father looked down at my brother and asked, "So, how'd you like it?" My overstimulated older brother began to unbuckle his seat belt and hop out of his seat before he was encouraged to get back in before the plane really took off. Tee-hee. Kids are so easy to fool.
I remember that, but I can't recall a moment of the flight to Denver now eleven years gone. The good news is that I have rediscovered my love of flight through my son. He's the one who marvels at the speed, and watches as the flaps extend and retract. He watches the earth zoom out, and then zoom back in again. I don't get the window seat anymore, but I don't mind.