Fly

“Flight attendants, take your seats.”

The pilot – good one – eases the plane onto the runway, cutting the corner of the taxiway, he knows just when the call is going to come. Never stops rolling. Punches it. Thrust. Heads back in seats, Gs, whitecaps on the Bay zipping by. Faster, faster, acceleration, exhilarating, the fuselage shaking and tray tables rattling. Then into the sky – into the sky! Into the gloaming. The last of the orange out the opposite window, orange glow over summer fog bank. Silver cities below, and the lights of ten thousand cars becoming ants as we head higher and higher. Into the night, above the night, one with the night, a place where everything might be alright.

And I’ve never lost my little boy’s delight in flying.

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