Perhaps you’ll find this odd, but often when I take a night flight and I find myself looking down at the tiny lights of an unknown city, I am overcome with a strange feeling that somewhere below the plane and me is my childhood home.
Once again I am on a night flight, wearing a summer dress, and I see a city through the window. I know pretty well that miracles don’t exist, but I don’t know why it seems possible to me that if only I could land in this twinkling place it would suddenly start snowing, that I would be transported to that winter many years ago. That winter I am 6, everything is white, and my grandfather is pulling my sled humming something nice. There is my house, number 34, I am running upstairs, opening a large red door, making my way to the kitchen. My grandmother is there bending over the oven, and it is warm inside, and it smells good, and the windows are fogged up with our heat.
What if it were possible, just every once in a while, to visit a certain moment from our childhoods, even if only for a few moments? It could be special, right? But maybe our memories are the miracles, the moments continuing to live on, always in time, somewhere, happening?