Memory is a twisty thing, a snake that’s half shed its skin. What I’m remembering is important, necessary—as clear and urgent as if I were reliving it anew.
Snow, a white blanket of it. Last December, the night we left Toronto.
The plane has been delayed, first for twenty minutes, then two hours. At the terminal gate, Kira and I press our faces against the windows overlooking the runway, watching the heavy snowflakes stick to the glass. We breathe on it and draw sad cartoon faces with our fingers.
“It won’t be so bad,” I tell her. She glances at me, doesn’t answer. She breathes out another perfect circle of condensation and touches her thumb against it.
Later, she clutches my hand as we board. Normally confident, the bustle of people filtering through the narrow aisles has turned her shy. She tugs a small suitcase behind her. Mom settles in the row behind us.
“I’m scared,” Kira whispers to me.
“I know. Me too.” My fingers brush her green flannel shirt, so soft it could be her pyjamas. “Here. Cuddle against me.”
“I’m too old for that,” she says, even though we both know she isn’t. Instead she pulls the hood of the shirt up, and rests her head against my shoulder, shaky with exhaustion. We should have left hours ago. It’s coming up on midnight by now. But the plane doesn’t take off.
“Sorry, folks.” The captain’s voice over the speaker is abrupt, filled with false friendliness. “They need to clear the runway again. We’ll have you in the air as soon as possible.”
“Does that mean we won’t be able to go, Soff?”
“I don’t know. We’ll have to wait and see.”
“Let’s just stay,” she says. “I want us to stay.”
The same bright hope is flaring in my mind. Perhaps the flight will be cancelled. Perhaps the whole thing will be called off.
Slowly, the snow begins to pile up against the window. It gets thicker and thicker as the plane stays motionless. I feel afraid, looking through the fluff of Kira’s hair, watching the world beyond the window disappear. What if we get buried in the snow? Equally terrifying: What if we don’t? What if the runway is cleared, what if the plane takes off, what if it lands at Heathrow just like it was supposed to? I have no idea what our life will look like.
The light of the plows streaks the glass in blue, almost obscured by the snow. Time seems to stand still, everything erased.
“I had a dream we were underwater,” Kira murmurs. The same dream she has always had, since she was very small. “It was scary not to breathe anymore, but it was okay too. You were there.”
“It’s just a dream, Kira.” I touch the fine, staticky hairs on her head, smooth them down again.
“It wasn’t a bad dream.” This last statement is devoured by a yawn, her fear giving way to sleepiness. She’s going back to that place, the dream place. Going back underwater. But she resists, stays awake. “I’m sorry that I hurt you.”
But this isn’t right. This isn’t part of the memory.
“You’ve been so worried about me,” she says.
I’m afraid to look at her. I’m afraid I’ll see black eyes, rimmed in yellow, a body that has already begun to change. Past and present are blurring, merging. Memory and dream.
“I could hear you, Soff. I could hear you whispering to me. Telling me stories. You called me back to myself.”
I force myself to meet her gaze but it isn’t what I thought. She is still herself. Her eyes are the light blue verging on grey they’ve always been. “I didn’t mean to leave you alone like that. I just wasn’t really thinking.” And she smiles the same smile I’ve always known, rueful and apologetic. “I should’ve held onto you longer.”
“You’ve been calling me,” I manage. “Why?”
As if she hasn’t heard me: “Do you remember the story about the birds?”
“Which story?”
“All the stories. You know them, Soff. You told them to me.” Singing. I can hear them singing. Birds like smoke, birds like weather.
“The lark’s mother died…” I begin.
She finishes it for me: “But there was nowhere to bury her body. No earth, only water. And so she lived in grief. Then on the third day she buried her mother in the back of her head.” Then she smiles. “All stories have a seed of truth inside them. Look.”
She reaches over, her finger hovering just between my eyes.
And I can see the world as she sees it. Below is water, a vast ocean stretching toward the horizon in every direction. As the sun rises it smears colours across the surface, orange and yellow, amethyst, pale blue. The light is extraordinary, clear and unimpeded. There is nothing but this, all else vanished, all else sunk beneath the waves. A vision of heaven—but not weightless, not changeless. The sky is teeming with life: great feathered bodies, their wings made to tame the storms. They are buoyed up by rising columns of warm air that move like cyclones across the open space. And they sing to one another of the storm that has passed. An endless note, going on and on and on.
“That is what we are, Sophie. Our bodies have changed but we remember. We’re a way of remembering. So we can survive.”
How do we take what we love with us? Our bodies remember, imprinted by pain and joy. We bury it all inside of us: memories of disaster, memories of joy, shored up against loss. And from those memories, comes what? Change, I think, a way to survive when all hope seems lost. A fresh start. As I watch the waters recede and the earth is revealed again, rocky and black-green beneath us, gleaming in the sunlight.
“Is this what’s coming?”
“None of us know what comes next,” she says. “I’m scared.”
“You don’t have to be.” She’s the big sister now, trying to comfort me. “You can bring everything with you. Nothing needs to be left behind. Whatever you can carry.” She unbuckles herself from her seat, pulls herself up close to me so her face is almost touching mine. Her eyelashes brush lightly against my cheek.
I put my arms around her. I don’t want to say goodbye even though I can feel that she’s leaving me. Sinking away, back into slumber. I watch the shadow of heavy machinery moving outside. I listen to the rising babble of the passengers. They’re trapped, they know it. The delay has made them skittish.
Then the speakers jump to life. “Sorry about the delay, folks. We’re cleared for take-off now. Cabin crew, please prepare for gate departure.”
Kira’s body feels thin and bony through the green flannel shirt. The cabin is shaking. “It’ll be okay,” she whispers. A premonition, a prophecy, a command.
And I hold her close to me as the plane leaps into the air.