I press my face up against the oval window and smile until my cheeks throb. My tiny hands whip side to side, side to side, until my arms ache, and my mother grips my forearm and tells me I’m bothering the other passengers. I think that if I wave long enough, my relatives will see me and believe that I see them. They start waving back and pointing, calling all our distant family to “come quick! Look, Hannah sees us!” I won’t let them know that I can’t actually see them because I don’t want to hurt them. I mouth, “I miss you.” They cry out, “We miss you too!” and wave as the plane dips back under a bed of clouds. I wonder if they ever saw me waving-- and I wonder if they ever waved back.