on flying.

(or: "the twin gift and curse of youthful imagination and the ways we survive.") (if we do.) (we do.)

If you are not already, someday you will be older. Someday you’ll feel old. Or you'll find yourself sitting next to your child, the one you birthed from a teenage womb, on an airplane at take off and you'll notice his right leg shaking rhythmically and you'll wonder if he is scared and you'll wonder how you've flown so many times with him and still don't know if take off makes him scared and he won't kick the seat or ask a million questions or want two snacks or need the bathroom as soon as his seat buckles. He'll just put his Beats on and his head down and watch The Hangover, which you'll watch too and giggle, over his shoulder, at the same time as he snickers and he'll be so grown up you won't know if you should ask him if he's scared and it'll be too late to ask him if he's scared and hopefully he isn't scared.

I tap him once on the shoulder, lightly, and he hits the screen of his phone with his index finger, deftly pausing the film while raising the headphone from his right ear with the opposite index finger, questioning? "They have a monkey," I point to the movie, referencing, without reference, the conversation last week where he attempted to persuade me towards a monkey as a pet. "I know," and his face breaks into a smile.

"Do you want your air turned down; are you cold?" I ask in one sentence, noticing his still shaking knee and excusing the movement as…