Felicia Change

Seat 18A

My house is enclosed with a hard shell, soaring across the skies with me and my neighbors. An endless landscape of clouds floats outside my dirty window. My assigned seat number is 18A and it is my temporary home, fit just for me, undecorated and empty until I filled it up with my body and presence.

My house is caressing me in its tight embrace, ready to spit me out when I reach my destination. The house next to mine is rented out. I should feel claustrophobic with neighbors in such proximity to me, the solid roof curving above my head, displaying a seatbelt sign and buttons. Instead, I feel at peace.

The anxiety of packing, getting to the airport, and boarding was leaving my body. Replaced by anticipation. A longing for adventures to come, for my feet to explore new cities, and my mind to contemplate new topics. 

My legs cannot stretch out. It is uncomfortable for my body, but it pleases my mind. My house is taking me from one continent to another. Above the clouds and with the world below, where endless possibilities await my arrival.

I’ve made this temporary house my home. A soft blanket covering my legs, a pillow resting on my lap, my book and phone laying on the fold-out tray.

When the food delivery arrives, my home turns into a singular dining room. My feast is tucked into a box, I spread it out on my tray. My soda fizzes. It is not my mother's food, but it is nourishment. A meal I would not have again soon, so I decide to enjoy it. I want to recycle the containers, but it is not an option. Everything is placed into a plastic bag when the waste cart comes by. 

When I crave entertainment to drown out my thoughts, my home becomes a living room. An assortment of options awaits my decision. Music, movies, podcasts, games. I pick a movie and settle into my rigid chair, focused on the screen in front of me, distracting me from everything I’m leaving behind.

When I finally doze off to the low humming sound of the airplane and neighbors conversing, it becomes my bedroom. It is not comfortable, but it is also not permanent, so it’s effortless to endure.

I’m disoriented when I wake. My body is stiff and yearns to stretch. Motioning to my neighbors, they shuffle out of the row, and I follow. My limbs rejoice and my brain awakens with every step. 

The lavatory is my restroom. Thankfully temporary because it is not tidy when I enter. I wash my hands, glancing at my reflection in the smudged mirror. The unnatural lights in the small enclosure make me look ghost-like.

The walk back to my home is short. I pass rows upon rows of homes, some occupied by neighbors, others vacant. Each is tucked into their own space, some in their bedrooms, others in their entertainment rooms.

I thank my neighbors as I shuffle through their homes to my own. My neighbor is using their bedroom. An eye mask serves as the curtains. The earbuds isolation.

Through the window, the clouds have moved, and the skies cleared up. The sun beams on the world below. The land condensed to sheets of paper, buildings miniature, the cars ant-like, the people dust. Everything seems small and insignificant from this high up.

My house is beckoning towards the ground. The foundation is shaking, rattling my bones. I grip my armrest, my home giving me comfort. Descending to a new space which I will make my own. Unless my house decides not to reach its destination in one piece.

Fin.