At the Chicago airport there is a boy about 9 or 10 years old, an attractive and intense boy who wears glasses that hide his eyes.  His mother is gently chiding him, saying that on this flight he must let her sleep and not ask questions.  He assures her that this time he will read.

When he sees the plane he declares that this is a Real jet.  It has a pointy nose.  And he is right.  It is sized just for him.  I feel like I am stuffing myself into a doll house.  My carry-on and I barely fit.  He sits in front of me in the window seat.

As we rise through the clouds, faces pressed to the windows, we both gaze in silent amazement.  Great adventures of clouds, palaces, forests, and giants surround us all in brilliant whites and blue.  Then there is a suddenness of dazzling milky landscapes below us.  He looks over his shoulder at me.  “Cool, isn’t it?” “Really Cool” he replies, his grey eyes shining.