Landing

It's ten minutes to landing. I get ready to take the picture from my window, as I always do when the plane approaches the airport. Down below I see the city, gridded: low clouds, a board of reds, long green rectangles bordering, from side to side, the meandering river. I am still arriving in a livable city, I think with an almost childish feeling.

I can already imagine myself sitting on my mother's herb-scented porch, while she looks at me in that way that makes me laugh. I continue to mechanically take the photographs.

I'm glad my window panes are clean. I have already photographed the hills that circumscribe the city. I have pictures of the clouds for my nephews ; I love to amaze them with my travel anecdotes. It occurs to me to take a picture of the wings of the plane and then I see the smoke. It's coming out of the wings.

A shot of adrenaline rushes down my spine, I turn to look at the woman next to me. She looks asleep. I don't dare wake her. Then I feel the shudder. The plane shakes as I am assaulted by the memory of that early morning dream.

I'm on my mother's porch, looking at the garden, the huge tree my sister and I planted when I turned five. That's where she hung the swings when she had her children. I look at the children singing a nursery rhyme as they swing:
"I am a blue and silver bird,
I fly, I fly.
I'm a silver and blue bird
That goes to the sky."

I am filled with a feeling of deep sadness, I stop looking at my nephews and look for my mother. There I see her behind the kitchen glass, she looks at me at that moment, she smiles at me, she approaches me with a peaceful smile. Aromas of bacon, fried eggs, homemade bread accompany her. When she is close to me she steps back, her back to me....

I try to call out to her, but the voice doesn't come out of my throat, which gets tighter and tighter.

Then the smell of smoked bacon and eggs turns into a more distinct smell, a smell of benzene, of petrol. When I recognise it I meet my father on a road. There I wake up.

The woman next to me shakes me, her wild eyes searching for my gaze. The memory of the dream has left me calm. With a sense of doom fulfilled that cannot be opposed.

What is happening? What's going on? the woman shouts. I take her hand. I smile sadly at her. We'll make it, I tell her, convinced otherwise.

We're going to die, she whimpers. Something told me I shouldn't take this plane today. Something told me! She continues talking.

I take her face in both hands, looking straight ahead. Something in her features reminds me of my mother.

Calm down, please. I will be with you, I promise.
The woman hugs my head, silently.

I hear the rumble of the cockpit. The set of voices resembles the roar of a large animal in distress. The rumble ceases as the loudspeaker transmits the captain's message:

"We are having a difficulty landing. We are resolving it."
The cockpit filled with prayers. Young mothers comforted small children with sweet phrases.

Two minutes later the flight attendant made the expected announcement:
In a minute we will be landing (...) don't forget to collect your belongings.

As I walk to collect my luggage I think about what my dream could have meant.