The Weight of Paper

We spend our lives folding things. We take a flat, white surface and crease it, hoping to give it the shape of flight. It is a fragile geometry. We believe that if we bend the edges just so, the air will hold us. But the air is indifferent. It does not care for the precision of our folds or the intent behind our hands. We release these small, paper vessels into the wind, watching them dip and stall, waiting for a lift that rarely comes. There is a quiet ache in this. To teach someone else how to fold is to pass on the hope that gravity might, for once, be negotiated. We do not talk about the inevitable landing. We do not mention the way the paper softens in the damp grass, returning to the earth from which it came. We only watch the arc, holding our breath, until the sky is empty again.

Elena Zakharova has captured this fleeting gravity in her image titled Paper Airplanes. It reminds me that some things are meant to be held only for a moment. Does the flight matter more than the landing?