I have a recurring dream about a jetliner that never takes off.
I board it, and I always sit on the left side of the plane, on the aisle.
I buckle up, anticipating take-off.
It begins taxiing but never achieves the speed to leave the ground.
Instead it continues to bump along on the runway at about 30 mph.
It turns and leaves the airport and enters the city and I wonder how its giant wingspan is negotiating the streets and underpasses.
It passes under great oak trees and threads its way among low cottages and saltbox houses.
I look out the window to see if the wings have been sheared off, but they are still there.
It moves along as steadily as an autobus.
It takes the turns gracefully and smoothly; the pilot is clearly a pro.
It is a lovely relaxing ride, but the destination is unclear.