One day, when I was ten or so, alone in the dinnertime quiet of our suburban cul-de-sac, I reclined in the seat of an upturned Big Wheel and let my gaze wander upwards. My head lay on the warm pavement, which hummed with the day's dissipating heat and, far below, the slow engine of the turning earth. Staring past the handlebars, I watched as the pane of blue ahead, just a dusty ceiling an hour ago, began to slowly sink away, giving way to a distance I'd considered but never quite conceived. I felt small, as you do, but also exhilarated and emboldened by the realization that the sky was somewhere—a place you might go.
Flight is a series of meditations on that somewhere. With the license granted by the sequential-art form, these graphic artists use words and pictures to plumb those heights and dramatize the brash act of flying. The collection delivers flights of fancy as well as grounded drama, and there's something for everyone, regardless of experience and comfort with comic art. Some may even be surprised to find within it some reflection of themselves; flight is as old as dreams (though, by that token, so is showing up to class naked), and every one of us has had his turn playing amid the clouds. And because we're not really supposed to be up there, and we can never stay for long, there is nascent in every flight, however brief or commonplace, the possibility of wonder, and the impertinence of childhood.
So the next time you fly, do what I do and gloat a little. Strapped to your assigned slice of steel and trundled to the very edge of the ground, keep your head high and your eyes open and, as the floor beneath you rises and the world beneath it falls away, kindly but firmly tell gravity to suck it. You'll be back in a while, but just now you have somewhere to be.