Dear Pen Pal,
I am writing to you from Bamboo Airways flight QH161 with domestic service from Da Nang International Airport to Ho Chi Minh City (SGN), scheduled departure 15:45, actual departure time 22:10, on the twenty-fifth of July, of the year 2024. I am seated in row 14 seat A. To my left, a fogged acrylic window framing a neon reflective aircraft marshal waving illuminated wands, signaling the pilot to ramp up for take off. Directly in front of me, a headrest that ideally would have a screen for entertainment, but most noticeably does not. Directly behind me, there is a small foot, roughly size 3 juniors, pressing through the polyurethane foam seat and into my spine, L2 or L3 vertebrae. To my peripheral right, a deadpan flight attendant clasping and unclasping a slack seatbelt for demonstration purposes. To my immediate right, Lionel Messi, two of him, wearing identical dupe national selection jerseys, brothers decreasing in size and spanning across the aisle where two more Messi’s sit, flanked by a vigilant mother, eyeing her team distrustfully through thick-lensed spectacles.
My hands are folded in my lap, elbows tucked inside of the armrests, and my feet are awkwardly perched on and around my crunched backpack, weight of 7.5kg, ankles tilted at angles acute enough to sprain them if there’s turbulence. My internal body temperature is optimistically 98.6 degrees of the Fahrenheit variety. My eyes are dry, my throat is parched, my muscles are cramped and I am experiencing the onset of a migraine. My body language is neutral. My mood is generically unbothered but not particularly welcoming.
The final observation to set the scene, that forms the metaphorical basis of this correspondence, is that it fucking reeks. It smells like chemical warfare. Instinctively, I tuck my nose under the neck of my shirt for protection, appalled at the audacity of the stench. My mood is now bothered. As I offendedly search for the source of the stink, the mystery musk reveals its origin story and I am forced to smile, shake my head and laugh. The Vietnamese Messi brothers have removed their shoes and socks and are curiously sniffing each other’s stinky feet. When the odor wafts and touches the tip of their brains, they dramatically recoil, a subconscious survival mechanism, and then grin a semi-toothlessly and lean in for another puff.
Once the wave of nausea passes through my system, my body begins to react to a new neurochemical flood; nostalgia. I fondly remember being a disgusting little boy with sweaty soles and a disregard for neighboring nostrils. I remember blowing soda out of my nose, shoving my hand into my armpit to make it fart, and using the entire length of my finger to pick boogers. I pause at this innocent imagery, a fingernail scraping mucous, to lament that although I romantically reminisce on this age of innocence, I cannot pinky promise you that I truly, honestly remember being that boy. I can’t feel it anymore. I am only role playing in my mind, how it must have been, unsure of how it really was, directing scenes of simplicity as if I were shooting the VHS videos from scratch.
When we talk tenderly about our youth, when we idolize that aforementioned innocence, we say that we remember but could we ever truly reenact? Because it isn’t our body alone that makes us a child, but our charming naivety, the not knowing more than you need to. I have accidentally learned to much in this life. Is it too late to be young? It feels unfair that life forced us to grow up; could we have refused? Is it a conscious decision or an inevitable evolution? When did we tuck that child into bed and close the door behind us for the last time? Why did no one tell us that there was no going back?
Childhood seems like a distant dream. I miss the days when I played without purpose; when play was my purpose. I hate the idea that now time can be wasted. As a kid, you passed the time being a kid, there was nothing more or less for you to do. I don’t adore adulthood. It all feels too consequential. But I don’t hold the hands of the clock and walk them backwards. To shrink, to scrub off my scars, to drain the ink from my tattoos; what for? I would end up grown, pen in hand, writing this letter to you again.
There are theories. There are theories backed by saddening science that says that waiting 24 days for Christmas at age 5 feels like waiting a year at age 76. According to the theory, if you live to be 100, half of your perceived life is over at age 7. Blink and you may just miss it. I do miss it. I miss when tomorrow never came. I miss making mistakes and not knowing any better. I miss my old ideas of home and family. I miss when the world was right in front of me and not inside of my head. I miss the time when dreams were too young to die.
What I want more than anything is to run down the street on a hot summer day, knock on the front door, sweaty and out of breath, and ask my parents if that little me can come outside to play today.
Would he be home?
I don’t know where the inner child goes but I believe that the path to happiness is to follow its footsteps, and if you ever find yourself lost to close your eyes, take a sniff, and head in the direction of those stinky feet.
Love,
Ryan Anthony Dube
*Author’s Note*
At the end of this flight our plane was held up on the tarmac and we had to wait a significant amount of time to de-board the plane. The Messi brothers began quietly addressing me with random English phrases they knew and would giggle when I would respond. Their mother would encourage them to try to say new phrases, ask me my name, where I was from, and at the end of the conversation one of the smallest Messi’s said “I like you.” And I said I like you too. I gave them my spare Oreos and a wholesome memory was made.
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