Takeoff [Narrative]
For one thing, falling out of the sky. Plummeting to the ground in a lifeless hunk of metal. I discovered this on my 20th birthday, sitting in the copilot seat at Oakland International Airport, imagining my mother’s greatest fears for the first time.
It had been a while since I truly enjoyed a birthday. In fact, I had come to dread them—especially the milestone ones like 16, 18, and 20, which carried an overwhelming weight. I disliked birthdays much like I disliked New Year's or the end of a semester: they forced me to confront the passage of time, whether I wanted to or not. These days pushed me to evaluate what I had or hadn’t accomplished, and although they were meant for celebration, their significance often terrified me due to fear of wasted time.
In contrast, my early childhood birthdays felt light and carefree, buoyed by bouncy castles and sugar rushes. My mom went all out for these celebrations, carefully planning every detail based on themes I chose. For example, on my eighth birthday, she created “Hogwarts acceptance letters” invitations on parchment paper, burned their corners by hand, and sealed them with homemade wax stamps to add a touch of mystery.
The one thing my mom would never let me do was fly. I have wanted to pilot a plane ever since I was ten years old.
Author's note: This narrative reflects the bittersweet transition from childhood innocence into the heavy awareness of time and unrealized dreams.
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