I fly planes.

Sometimes it's good to look down at your life from 4,000 feet. And it's good to take hold of the yoke. To land and take off and land and take off and realize that you control your life. That when your hands twist left, your wings veer in the same direction. Look down at the lights. They are tiny. It's all black. It's 1:30 am.

When you pull back, the nose pulls back and you are climbing. When you push forward, your nose dips and the ground comes toward you and you could die or you could keep flying and the moon doesn't look very far away from up here.

"Pull back hard, hard, harder, there you go. Level off. Level off."

And all you have to do is get off the ground to see how beautiful it is.

Since I came back from college, my dad and I have had the best relationship so far. I start to see ways that I am his daughter, too.

We both like buttons.

We both like lights.

We both like buttons that light up.

I get a funny feeling in my stomach when he accelerates incredibly fast on his new crotch rocket. It builds up a sound in my throat, the only way to release the butterflies. The motorcycle can go as fast as the plane. If it had wings, my dad would fly that, too. We ride to the lake. Past Surprise Valley and I just look down at a different life.

Thousands of gallons of water shoots out of two holes in the dam, filling the Boise River until it floods the greenbelt. You would die instantly. You get the same feeling at 80 miles per hour on the motorcycle. Or 180 in an airplane. When I'm flying it.

Take the yoke, and level off.