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July 19, 2006:
It's just like those dreams you're always having.
This time we fly beneath the bridge before landing.
It's San Diego airport.
Not Pittsburgh.
The descent over Balboa Park, then dropping like a stone across I-5.
At the airport the taxi space runs between buildings.
Downtown.
A 727, obeying traffic lights, following a rush-hour crush of minivans and SUVs.
Hard left at the corner.
You can see the plane's nose swing into the oncoming lane, like a big truck too wide for the turn.
On the tarmac the bags are piled in the canyon between aircraft.
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© 2002-2012 Mark Phillips.
All rights reserved.
This writing is fiction. Please don't confuse it with reality.