T is for turbulence.

We thought nothing could be worse than the flight to New Orleans, diverted to Dallas to escape the threat of hurricanes, trapped on the tarmac for three hours in a stifling cabin, watching all hope of an arrival that night slip away with each flash of lightning. But the flight home proved unexpectedly rocky, as, without warning, the flight attendant was thrown down the aisle. The screams started then, passengers jostled to and fro like rag dolls. I gripped the armrest white-knuckled, you picked our Cokes up off of the tray tables to prevent them flying, only to slosh them over my white cotton cardigan, so violent was the turbulence. Several excruciating seconds later the pilots managed to pull our plummeting plane from another’s jet wash. As those around us thanked lucky stars that we avoided a Top Gun ending, I looked at you in wonder. You were sad that you couldn’t save our drinks.