I wrote this on our plane ride:
Each light is an island with an ocean of darkness around it. The earth and the sky are one and the same in the darkness. The yellow lights of the cities seem suspended, secure in their size. The lonely lights of farms hang forlornly, stubbornly until the darkness swallows them.
The plane is lit gently and we are still climbing slowly. The crew stop by with cloths so we can wash our hands. They ask us if everything is satisfactory. The baby on the far side of the plane is concentrating on his toy. My menu is a small white booklet full of expensive sounding food. A baby starts to cry somewhere and then stops. Mom is reading but I want to describe this. The plane bounces a little and I have to swallow again to get rid of the pressure in my ears. I hear cutlery rattling and I wonder when they will serve our meal. Sam looks bored waiting for his TV to turn on. Dad studies his menu. I can't tell what Nicole is doing because my back is to her and the chairs are hard to turn around in or see over. It's almost completely dark outside now. The captain or co-pilot just said they had to reset the entertainment system and it will be up again in 10 minutes. Dad is wandering around asking us what we're having to eat. The plane bounces again. I am too warm. A steward pushes a cart down the far aisle with drinks on it. A stewardess is pushing a similar cart down this aisle. They proceed slowly. Sam is trying his TV again. I take off my boots, hoodie, and reorganize my stuff before my food comes. We are still climbing up and the lights outside are few and far between now. I set up my foot rest and am feeling very comfortable.