The Ever-Loving Virgin Prince

O, how lowly and blessed the barf bag, this wondrous device that has protected many a carpeted aisle from the contents of our stomachs, saving both the passenger and the airline staff from inconvenience. Were Abraham Lincoln alive today, he might very well write a modern-day Gettysburg Address on the back of one of these waxed wonders. Perhaps George W. Bush has done just this very thing while he was preparing speeches for his troops in Iraq while he was aboard Air Force One, having already used up all his regular sheets of paper in making paper aeroplanes and folded captain’s hats gracing the heads of he and his cabinet.

I, myself, find myself relegated to writing on this bleached and folded bag as a consequence of having just barely made it onboard the plane in time for takeoff. As I trudged aboard the plane with my heavy suitcase and my ticket in hand, I barely had enough time to stow my bag before the overhead compartments were closed up and the jet engines were accelerating us forward, lifting our heavy metal bird off the ground as the wheels of our landing gear gave the tarmac one last kiss goodbye. Consequently, I had no time to remove my much-weathered Gonzo-journal from my baggage before takeoff.

And now I write on an unused barf-bag which has probably flown several times across the country, perhaps meandering into Canada, and probably dipping briefly into Mexico. There is nothing more wasteful than an unused piece of paper, and so, as I sit here with my grandfather’s hat on my knee, and a wee-youngster counting beside me, I bless this bag with words. I think of a funeral; a celebration gone well, and I think of how much I’ll miss my grandfather, and how much I already do; I think of how fortunate I was to see so much family, and to meet new family still. I think of Gilbert & Sullivan and how their works and music seemed to tie all the generations of our family together, from octogenarian to eighteen-year-old, and how well the service went. I’m wondering if the whole event jarred something in my brain, and perhaps did something to restore an ounce of my faith.

Now I realize that I’m running out of space on the bag and if I wish to continue writing, I shall have to write on the section of the bag printed with “occupied” in big letters, though it doesn’t seem to matter as the plane is landing shortly.