Flying

The trip to the airport was uneventful. Clay spent some time writing notes, printing down the name of the airport he was flying to, the name of the hospital, Orlando’s full name, his own.

The airport was quite overwhelming, huge and noisy and metallic. Clay suppressed his urge to flee back into the parking lot and walked ahead, searching for the right airline desk.

And suddenly he was sitting there, in a tiny seat, strapped in, surrounded by business people. As the only one he paid attention to the run-through of safety procedures, checking that there was indeed a lifejacket under the seat, peering at the little lights showing the way to the exits.

And then they took off.

It was a bit disappointing really. Apart from take-off there was no telling that you were in the air, like the birds. Just noise and a cramped space and people napping or reading.

When you’re flying you should feel the wind tear at you.

This felt too – safe.

And yet, having seen the plane from the outside, one was tempted to believe that the only thing holding them up was their shared belief that this was doable. Possible.

Not unlike calling somebody home by believing beyond any shadow of a doubt that they would come if only you kept the faith.

Clay leaned back and believed.