Originally posted 04.02.2005

There are no direct flights from New York to my Wisconsin hometown. I’ve gotten used to the dogleg from Milwaukee, Minneapolis, Chicago, the 52-minute flight on a puddle jumper that barely crests before it begins to descend. People with even the slightest flying anxiety sit rigidly on these planes, their arms crossed tightly in front of them. But I have no such anxiety—to me, flying is as natural as diving, breathing underwater from a tank. That is, it’s not natural at all. It’s so unnatural as to be surreal. So of course it works. Absurdly, it works just fine. I love these little flights, so close to my home turf, and I fall into a misty reverie as the plane dips toward the river valley, its ridges still crested in the last of winters’ snow, tributaries of the mighty river snaking through farm country. The outstanding physical features of La Crosse look like a tourist post card from the 50s even in the full light of day. Grandad’s Bluff looms pinkish-orange, a jutting sandstone chin and forehead, the sky beyond touched with teal. At the bottom is a golf course, neatly tended, so squared off it seems I could pick the whole scene up by a corner and scrawl on the back: weather is here, wish you were beautiful. I’d send this card to the man I’ve been seeing in Brooklyn. He’s of an urban archetype that believes if you’re not in therapy, you’re in denial, and that my periodic lapses into depression stem from childhood insecurity and repressed anger toward my parents. Their early negligence, he insists, classifies as abuse of a most insidious sort, made all that more damaging because it is so vague. He considers my suffering to have been on a par with that of his ex-wife, who was shoved into a childhood prostitution ring at the age of 6, an arrangement from which her mother benefited financially. I can't really agree with this comparison. My father is waiting at the baggage terminal when I arrive. He’s had about 24 hours with the news that he’s got early stage prostate cancer and the strain of this knowledge shows around his eyes. He catches me in a one-armed hug and the brim of his hat digs into my cheekbone. “Your mother couldn’t come with me because she’s cleaning up after one of the cats,” he tells me. “We don’t know which one.” The carousel buzzer bleats and we take a few steps toward the conveyor, eyes pealed for my duffle bag.