Trusting the Click

The seatbelt slides into the clasp—

a small click, a small grasp

of plastic settling into place.

The driver pulls into traffic, and I trace

my finger along the belt, feeling

the weight of what I'm revealing:

I'm trusting this stranger with my life

based on a click, a small device,

a habit I've never questioned,

a sound I've never second-questioned.

The click vibrates slightly,

settling into my lap, tightly

fastening me to the seat,

and I understand: this small feat

of engineering, this small plastic thing,

is the only reason I feel anything

like safety in this moment,

moving at speed in this compartment

with someone I've never met,

who could swerve, could cause upset,

could kill me with a turn of the wheel.

But I've clicked the belt, and I feel

safe. The click did that.

A small sound, a small chat

between plastic and metal,

and suddenly my life settles

into the hands of a stranger,

into the faith that danger

won't happen, that the belt

will hold, that the click I felt

means something.

It probably doesn't.

But I've decided it does.