Hold The Sky Without Falling

When the engines begin roaring

and your stomach climbs into your throat,

do not argue with the sky or your body.

Ask for a hand.

If your love is next to you,

hold her hand, gently if you can.

Apologize for the white knuckles

Causing pain.

If your love is not next to you,

hold your seat's armrests.

They are bolted securely

by engineering you cannot see.

You are not floating alone.

There are other people around

Who may feel uncomfortable

As fear is contagious.

Breathe like you did before Rosie.

Inhale through your nose, 1-2-3.

Hold it in, 1-2-3.

Exhale through your mouth, 1-2-3-4.

Repeat. Again. And again.

Your body thinks you are falling.

You are not falling.

You are climbing the sky.

Think of the plane as a bus in the air.

Yes, buses are on the ground.

Planes are not and that's the problem.

But steel is steel

whether it rolls or flies.

Say it if you must:

This is a bus with wings.

You may prefer trains.

You may prefer boats.

There is no train

from Atlanta to Dublin.

There is only this moment,

and it is holding you.

Take control by holding it.

Facts will not save you.

You can list accident statistics

by month and airline.

Fear does not speak Excel.

Fear speaks images.

When the image flashes -

free fall, impact, headlines -

ask what you are truly afraid of.

Death?

Pain?

Leaving Rosie fatherless?

Losing control in front of your love?

Name it.

Naming shrinks it.

Borrow calm from your love beside you.

Let her stroke your arm.

Let her pray for you.

Pray yourself. You know it helps.

Remember the child you once were,

the one who got invited to cockpits,

bright-eyed and fearless.

Fear is not your identity.

It is a very recent tenant.

Tenants can leave.

Bad tenants can be evicted.

Once in Malaysia, you lived through a durian fruit

exploding in a public bus for no logical reason whatsoever.

So if catastrophe insists on rehearsing itself

inside your head,

notice how absurdly specific your mind can be —

like worrying about something small and unrelated.

Thank your brain for trying to protect you.

Then return to your breath.

When the plane finally levels out

from the turbulence,

notice and take in the quiet.

Notice your grip softening.

Return the borrowed hand.

Smile, relax and finally,

Sign up for long-needed therapy.

Author's Note: This poem has flown out of my earlier story about aerophobia titled "Hold My Hand, Please?"