Your body is treacherous, she told me. My eyes are wingward, but her words sound no different today on board. I white-knuckle the seat handle, putting my faith in a lurching gut and a heart sunken into the inclined floor.
Liftoff: an act of trust.
I let the frogs wrestle a bit in my throat, yet I am too parched to spell out anything close to a word. Secret is that the volumes are in my hands, my face, as if the words have sucked back in by the force of gravity and the violation of clouds. The blue chides my grey, and I shake off the haze left by the prickle of his beard and too many bottles. I feel like I’m looking again into his eyes.
But those days slick back like the droplets meeting their skymaker, and I am, for once, more buoyant.
I am flying.
On and away.
