Every time I fly I hold my parents hands. I grip onto them for my life, almost like if I let go I will slip out of the seat and out into the empty air below us. Its not that I am scared, for I have flown hundreds of times in my life, but it is now just tradition. No matter how angry or upset or troubled I am I still reach for the security that their hands give me. As we hear the engine roar to life and feel the jolt of the plane starting to move forward, we reach our hands out towards each other and don’t let go until we are safely thousands of feet in the air. Then we just go on with our normal flight. We sleep, we watch movies, we listen to music, we read our books, and we try to find comfort in the most uncomfortable of seats. Until we see the seatbelt sign light up and feel the decline of the plane some place deep in our stomachs, where we hold each other’s hands again. Sometimes, our eyes close shut, but we are not praying or thanking God for our safe flight. We just do it. For the security that it gives us. For the thought that when we open up our eyes we will be on land, in a totally different place than where we started. Once we land we open our eyes, release each other’s hands, and reach for our belongings. Like nothing ever happened.