On my way home

On my way home from London, the plane passed high above a thick blanket of clouds (as they write in novels).

It was for real a blanket: at departure, the sky was gray; it had been gray since morning. As the plane began to climb, the view below us became more and more muddy, until it became a blurry, indistinguishable image.

I was sitting in the rightmost seat in the row, at a window that looked westward for most of the trip.

By the time the sun started to go down we had pierced the blanket of clouds and were on the other side. The shadows lengthened, and by a lot. The colors changed. Even on board, I could feel, that light tension that accompanies flights like a background hum has eased.

The clouds, from above, took on new shapes: at first they were flat, then an expanse of pillow stuffing appeared below us, hinting at a huge couch under construction, the end of which we could not see.

The sun has been getting lower and lower and ... We'll talk about it tomorrow, come on.