In 2024 and 2025—an annus horribilis during which my parents died within nine months of each other—I flew fifteen times between Illinois and Maryland. From 1989 and 2011, for various reasons, I never boarded a plane. Yet feast or famine I’ve never quite gotten used to flying.

Or to taking and off and landing, anyway. Once airborne, I can usually vibe on the absurdity of being in a (relatively) comfortable sitting position while 30,000 to 40,000 feet in the air, indulging the surreal stillness of...