It’s not until
the captain requests everyone’s attention,
and travel-savvy short-haulers carry on
with chat and flicks through in-flight mags,
ignoring nearest exit route location,
inflatable vest cord, whistle, light
and top-up tubes, that I realise,
though I’ve not taken in fitting of the mask
or where the yellow jacket’s stashed,
it doesn’t really matter.
I wouldn’t be here without her,
planning, booking, checking in, steering me
through shoe removal, body belt unbuckling,
toothpaste sealed in see-through plastic
towards the right departure gate,
in flipped existence role reversal.
Realise, eyes half wide from early rising,
the only thing that matters is she doesn’t
waste her precious seconds if I fumble
over the oxygen mask’s elastic
or fail to check my life vest clasp’s secure.
In that moment, dying holds no dread.
Try to tell her, meet the same dismissive scowl
of time long past when, fearing playtime teasing,
I said there was no Santa.