Flying Close to Heaven

Over the past few months, as I’ve challenged myself to write more creatively, I’ve discovered that poetry is a powerful way for me to process my emotions. And nothing stirs my heart more than raising these two children. The bittersweet ache of watching them grow—so beautiful yet fleeting—never fails to hit me like a gut punch. Thank you for being here and reading my words!

Flying Close To Heaven

I'm on a plane.
With him.
With them.
My three favorite hearts.

Our sticky, salty skin
Still kissed by the ocean,
Holding on for a few more hours.

Our roles, our rhythms—ingrained now.
Snacks and water: me.
Heavy lifting, important papers: him.
Holding hands at takeoff,
Even if just for a second.

The way the sky lights her hazel eyes,
Catches the little swoop of her nose.
Did we really create that face?

My boy pats my arm
For comfort, for reassurance,
For proof that I am his,
And he is mine.

Flying with kids used to be a gamble.
Maybe they'd sleep.
Maybe they'd scream.
Now, I am a pillow.
A snack dealer.

I settle into my seat,
Watching them,
Wondering how I got this lucky,
Flying this close to Heaven.