I came to Canada at the age of six, on a LOT flight from Warsaw. I was crammed into a single stern passport photo with my mother and two sisters, the imminent birth of the younger of which had kept us grounded in Poland when my father left six months earlier. My grandmother stayed with us at the airport hotel, her crying joining that of the baby, none of us sleeping with the planes loud overhead. We said goodbye early the next morning, her only child and her only grandchildren. On the flight my sister and I ran up and down the aisles for hours, wreathed in late Soviet-era cigarette smoke, fueled by handfuls of candy from the flight crew: the darlings of the skies. We didn’t know that we could never really go back.
For 100 Words: The Beauty of Brevity. Word prompt “Canada.”