Five days ago. We stepped on a plane. Two oversized checked bags. A couple of carry-ons.

I was retched sick. You were tired. We sat last row. And fell asleep. Me on you.

The plane was as good as empty. COVID-19 swept travelers away. Us? We were fleeing. From a city of isolation. A quit job. And two abortions. One failed, the second successful. They said there was a slight risk. I was the 1%.

I’d packed up my bags one day prior. In one day. Cancelled my car insurance. Dropped a few keys. Done. Ready to go.

We left the city. And with it history. My sister. A handful of friends.

I remember how much my nose hurt on the plane. And my annoyance at that. My constant discomfort. Neither the nasal spray that we’d hastily bought at YVR, nor the pills helped.

I wanted it to end. The pain. The constant state of suffering that I’d been in for over two weeks. Since that test had shown me a plus sign. Pregnant.

Two abortions later my hormones were still out of whack. I was spinning. From misery to helplessness and short spurts of fleeting happiness. But as soon as that plane landed in Newark Liberty International Airport, and we stepped out onto American ground, my mode of being somehow changed.

Consciously placed across the entrance to the waiting halls, as the first food stop passengers run into was a Ben & Jerry’s. We got half-baked. Ice cream makes for happiness.

The wait at the luggage belt was brief. I remember us fooling around, toppling like two bored kids. And me throwing a comment at the American flag that was placed, no doubt also consciously directly under the Air Canada sign above the luggage belt. We had indeed arrived.

The taxi was a big old Ford Sedan and it took us to a car dealer out in New Jersey. You bought an old Jeep. A gift for Evan, your best friend, who was waiting for us to join him in Upstate New York.

We drove back to NYC. Stopped by a diner on the way. Burgers make for happiness too. And so the American life began.