When the plane takes off, I close my eyes and say some version of a prayer.
As it lands, I say another. But in between, I can forget I'm even flying.
How loosely we navigate the aisles, toss a box of cereal on a carton of eggs,
tumble apples from the pile, make an impromptu decision to grill steak
instead of fish. How strangely unexalted and casual, this storyboard. But in the beat
of a phone call, the clutch at God bears down. I don't know which keeps us better tethered
to our breath, our carelessness or drama. I don't know whether to count my blessings
before I have to pray for them or if they're not blessings until I do. The oval window
passes by each landscape, and mostly I miss the view until turbulence grips me tight.
Underneath, a mountain range, an alpine lake, a prairie, a sunset, a speck of light.