Falling. It feels like that moment when you drive over a hill, and your stomach becomes filled with butterflies, but it never ends. It feels like your head is about to pop off your body from the sudden loss of pressure, but it doesn’t. Falling feels endless, like time does not affect it. At this moment, I learned that your life does not flash before your eyes when you are on the brink of death. Instead, the only thing on my mind was the bubbling and boiling of my innards threatening to burst from my mouth and bottom. My fear and impending doom held the forefront of my thoughts, and it did not help that time felt so slow.
        Still seated, I looked out my window, my hand gripping the woman’s slightly wrinkled hand, her gold and diamond-encrusted ring digging into my skin. Out the window, I could see the plane's wings ahead of me, titling forward, nose-diving us toward the peaks of the mountains below. Then, another loud crash and the overhead bins spilled their insides, allowing small suitcases, backpacks, and other luggage to fly throughout the cabin. Documents, lip gloss, and tiny, travel-size toothpaste tubes littered the air, only to descend upon our heads. Whiplashed and whacked around, the woman began to whisper hushed words of courage into my ear, leaning her shoulder against mine. Her other arm reached across our bodies to hold the right side of my face, tears falling against the flesh of her fingers. She would wipe them away, constantly repeating that we were okay even though the other passengers were still screaming their heads off, gargling and gurgling as their voices became rasped from the constant strain on their vocal cords and the dryness of their throats. All I wanted was to go home— to my mother's embrace—but if I was to die in this woman's arms, then so be it. It was like she knew how much I needed my mother. Somehow, this woman knew what to do, and I had no reason to question it.
        Two weeks before, I had started my trip to visit my father’s family in Oklahoma, a place with windy roads and vast, green hills sprinkled across the land. Oklahoma was one of my favorite places to visit. The red dirt beneath my feet and the smell of summer rain stuck to the air. It was humid, hot, and incredibly uncomfortable on the skin, but it always felt like home. Even with the cruelty I faced when I was there, even when I had to face my father's wrath and my grandparents' stupidity, it somehow still felt like home. It wasn’t the people that made it home, but the environment, the nostalgia from my childhood that clung to the roots that had dug themselves deep into the soil I found so beautiful. 
        The smoke-stained wall had a permanent mark from when my head crashed through it. My father had gotten angry for reasons I can barely remember, maybe over a comment about how I hated the heat that radiated over Guam. Using his large, calloused hands, he grabbed the base of my head from the back and slammed me into the adjacent wall. Releasing his hold, my body crumpled to the ground, knees hitting the carpet hard, leaving a small abrasion from the carpet pulling on my skin. The pounding in my head felt like my brain had started to beat like my heart, banging on the walls of my skull, begging for release. My eyes had drooped, eyelids folding over my irises, threatening to shut my eyes indefinitely. I could hear thumping down the hall but couldn’t look up. Instead, my head fell to the floor. My arms had no strength to catch me. It was as if I had turned into a vegetable, limp and unmoving but ready to be eaten.  
        So, when I boarded the plane to my layover in Colorado, I felt an instant sigh of relief take over my body. I yearned for the crisp, chill air that was part of my California, the smell of the redwood trees, and the fog that rolled in during the early morning hours and left before it turned afternoon. Knowing that my mother was waiting for me at the other end, my shoulders slumped down to a more rested position. Imagining her sweet embrace, ready for my tormented mind and soul to find ease in her hold, my eyelids shut briefly, letting me breathe deeply for the first time in two weeks. It was instant bliss. 
        “You had a rough time?”
        Taken out of that moment, I looked at the person standing over me. It was a beautiful woman, around middle age. She had thick, long black hair that cascaded down her back, and she wore a knitted, poncho-like sweater with tassels dangling on the ends. Her eyes were an icy blue, becoming darker and ocean-like at the edge of the iris. Her lips were slightly chapped but plump and had a soft, peachy color that complemented her wavy hair. The woman was stunning, the epitome of elegance I wanted to have when I became her age. 
        She sat in the middle seat, next to me at the window. No one had sat in the aisle seat yet, “Yes, how could you tell?”
        Her peach-colored lips turned upwards, white teeth sparkling with the reflection of the fluorescent lights, “I just could. Though, you look a bit young to feel the way you are.”
        The woman was right. I had been told my entire life that I was too young to experience everything I had or that my life was like a movie. Some had even gone as far as to question why I hadn’t killed myself yet after hearing only bits and pieces of my story. “I get told that a lot.”
        “I am sure you do.” Her eyes weighed down on me like she was clawing into my mind, reading my soul’s energy. It didn’t bother me, despite how off-putting she was at first. Her aura was comforting—almost yellow-feeling—pouring her sunshine onto me, but still a little foggy.  
        It was Christmas Eve on Whidbey Island, and snow had covered the lawns of the hills like a cozy blanket. White flakes fell softly from the sky, landing on the tip of my nose and the edges of my eyelashes. The air was frigid, and I was stuck outside, locked out of the warm house where the fire burned, charring the savory-scented pine wood. Then a door slammed, and out of the house came my father’s friend. He walked over to me, his right hand at the edge of his pants, holding something in his belt. With how cold I was, bare feet on the ice-covered cement, I could not even fathom what he had within. My mind fell blank with the frost, white like a sheet of paper. Then, his left hand found its way around my neck quicker than I could realize. The veins in his arms bulged from his body up his throat and to his forehead. His adrenaline helped him hold me against the black truck behind me. Out of his jeans, he pulled a gun, held it against my head, and threatened to kill me. Unknown until after the event, my father stood on the porch of the house, eyes never blinking, just staring as his friend tormented me, leaving me with a memory that would destroy me for years to come.
        Only 22 seconds had passed before the plane began to soar once again. 22 seconds of believing my life was about to stop, my heart would stop beating, my brain would stop thinking, and my body would crumple into a million bits as it hit the earth's surface. I could foresee the search and rescue team coming to find any survivors, but finding nothing but blood, guts thrown around pieces of broken aircraft, and bones shattered with the bags of skin that would be our bodies. But we lived. We lived through 22 seconds of unfathomable fear. Then, we were once again soaring. 
        The woman still held my body, wrapped tightly in her embrace. She seemed to be waiting for the right moment to let go. Peering down at me, her head turned slightly down, and her peach-colored lips rolled upwards again, “That was quite a fright, don’t you think?” She began to unravel herself from me, putting her book back in her bag after finding it on the floor, then placing her hands back in her lap. She stared at me. 
        My left hand again found her right, “I hope this is okay. I just don’t feel ready to let go yet.” 
        Her soft, wrinkled fingers squeezed my hand, “That is fine, sweetheart.” She batted her eyelashes, her face still slightly paler than usual from the frightening experience, “You live in Colorado?” 
        “I do not. I live in California. This is only my layover.” My legs shook up and down, our arms bouncing with my buoyancy. 
        The lady made a clicking sound with her teeth, and her head moved from right to left, “I have to get on a shuttle right away to make it home from the airport, but I would feel more comfortable if I could walk you to your next flight and wait for you to take off.” 
        My eyes felt like they might bulge from my head. Her generosity knew no bounds. She was sure to be a goddess sent down from a god I do not believe in, “Are you certain? You should go home. I know that is all I want to do right now.” 
        “Just like you said, you want to go home. I could tell from the moment you got on this flight that you so desperately were trying to get somewhere, away from something. Let me do this for you. I want you to get home safe.” The sigh leaving her mouth was loud, and her breath smelt of fresh mint. “What is at home?” 
        So my lips finally curled upwards, the active flock of birds finally settling in my belly for just a moment, “My mom.”
        It was not an easy goodbye for either of us, but she wished me well and sat down to wait for me to board the following aircraft. I saw her standing at a window upon me, finally seating myself. The woman did exactly as she promised. She stood there, in all her glamorous glory, patiently waiting for my plane to take off. She watched us like a hawk for thirty minutes until we finally took off. My eyes never left her direction until she became just a distant fuzz, blurred by the dust in the air and my lack of vision, soon faded into a distant memory. 
        Opening the window shade, I could see the usual fog that rolled over the hills of the San Francisco Bay, laying delicately like a feather-filled pillow. The sun had no room to peek through the dense clouds, opaque and filled with water, preparing for a short summer rain. Then, walking as fast as I could to escape the plane, my feet scurried across the tile of the airport. I knew my mother was waiting for me outside of security, arms wide open to seize me in a suffocating hold. 
        There she was, my eyes landing upon her skinny, sweet face, her smile brightening up the hallway with her sparkling white teeth. She wore a gray sweatshirt with black leggings, a comfy outfit for the hour-long car ride ahead. My mom was standing right outside security waiting for me, and I couldn’t have felt any more relief than I did at that moment. Dropping my carry-on and running into her grasp, smelling the gentle aroma of her Jergens Original Scent lotion, I knew I was safe. I no longer had to deal with the fear of my father, the fear of falling to my death, or the fear of my mother getting the phone call that I had died tragically in a plane accident. Instead, I could smile and spill tears of joy because of my return. My only wish from the trip had been that I had asked the woman her name, but maybe it was supposed to be that way, a memory left behind for me to remember how vital a stranger's kindness can be. 
        However, that moment no longer mattered. It had already been suppressed deep within my mind with my other traumatic memories. Then, like the lightning that struck my plane, I was pulled away from my thoughts of the woman as my mother let go of our hug and took my bag in her hand. Finally welcoming me home, my mother’s voice gently soothing my soul, “Welcome back, Lizzy-bee.”