Take Off

Every time, every time the plane began its acceleration he thought of what could happen, of the moment when the "crack" would be followed by the noises of unintended friction, the slow-fast slide of events, all happening so fast that the fear couldn't have time to fully fill him, the objects around the cabin - that bottle of water, the briefcase under the seat - all now given new vectors by their inertia and the sudden jarring, the noise, the end, the pain. He folded his glasses, held his hands on his lap, and wondered if this - of all the times he had done this, more than forty-five years of commercial and military take-offs since his childhood - if this time, it would happen. And yet, the reassuring tilt, the acceleration of flight, and the plane's freedom was now complete. If there were ever times he felt the slightest sense of a need for religious reassurance, it was then, just when that metal tube careened at steadily higher speeds down a thin strip of asphalt. But, of course, there was already a kind of faith at work: moments later, more certain as any prayer, the physics of flight ruled after all.