In Ascension

by Martin MacInnes

I push off against a panel and drift to the far side of the cabin. The aircraft reaches the apex of its parabola and imperceptibly begins to turn, relative to the centre of the earth, reducing thrust and aiming towards a downward pitch. O’Neill says, ‘And now,’ and we lie back down, the substance of our bodies returns. A further minute’s pause, enduring silence, and this time I don’t need to be told. A twitching of fingers, an arc of the neck. The first stirring of a cell. Ascension: bodies rising and lifting off the ground, all of us airborne, all of us unlimited. We only look like we are rising when really we are falling. I barely recognise the faces around me: I have never seen them as expressive, as exquisite, as this. So much of the face is ordinarily buried, only two or three times in a life falling into expression, into joy, like this. I am floating through the air, and I almost remember something. I am coming back by degrees onto the cabin floor again, the nose of the plane pitching towards 30 degrees. Vomit first (delayed hyoscine) and then my tears, thick liquid running down my face. The total acceptance of my body, everything I am, by the atmosphere.