The Flight

As the plane departed, I glanced through the window as we rose above the clouds. Turning to my right to the aisle seat passenger opposite me, I noticed she had a look on her face that seemed all too familiar. While turbulence shook the aircraft, I unknowingly reached out a hand to make sure she was okay, a part of me longing to know what had happened.
She wore an old gray coat, whose colour had faded over the many months it was repeatedly worn. Boots, whose soles were missing, sheltered her feet and her toes were covered in warts and dirt. Her greying, silvery hair covered the armrest, like snowflakes during winter. She was staring at the safety magazine as if reliving an old experience that made her reluctant to fly.
She had fixated her eyes on the section where it described the procedure for exit if something were to happen. I reached out as if to ask her story, but she didn’t notice.
Almost immediately obvious was the fact that she was fleeing something, perhaps a war that had broken between her country and the neighbouring one. From her expressions, it was clear that she must have had everything; wealth, fame, a caring family. But it was probably all gone with the snap of a finger as if it never existed.
Her plane ticket must have cost her every nickel she ever had. She was most likely one of the fortunate few who had the opportunity and money to escape on a plane, instead of a small, rickety raft, that would cost twice as much and would probably collapse in the middle of the ocean, never to be heard from again.
The mood was sombre, and the lady whispered to the passenger beside her about the war that had occurred in their country. Although it was a foreign language, I could understand every word. Even a child probably could. They were words of fear. Her heavy accent diluted the words, like a drop of watercolour in crystal clear water.
I could see the horror in her hazelnut eyes, and the little faith she had in the world. Everything she did, everything that happened, was a new experience. It seemed fictional to me that while this poor lady was suffering, others were having the time of their lives without a care in the world, not pondering over the consequences of their actions. But what could she have done to deserve all of this? Her eyes welled up, and tears flooded down her cheeks at what seemed to be like the speed of a skier speeding down a mountain. I felt helpless.
Following that experience, I developed a strong sense of appreciation for what I have. Watching these countless people grow, from having nothing to achieving success. It's a privilege to witness this.

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