That Other Life - a pre-covid Traveler’s Tale.
_February 2017_
The airport itself is just winding down… filled mostly with weary souls - returning from their respective destinations. There’s something peaceful, sometimes magical, about flying through the night. Travelers pass me by… moving the opposite direction. Their bodies contorted to accommodate their literal luggage, which oddly, only seem to accentuate their figurative baggage. Lines are darkened across their faces, as if drawn by a child on an etch-a- sketch… or traced over with graphite.
Some are returning to houses that feel like homes… others are simply returning to their houses, where they feel like strangers. Others are heading to a new place... a place they will live for a short time - resting their heads on pillows many miles from anything familiar.
As for me… I greet the passing herd with discipline, and purpose. Days worth of living rest in this one bag hanging from my shoulder. Its contents as compartmentalized as my feelings as I maneuver this organized mess we call air travel.
I always dress nice when traveling, no matter the time of day. My sweatshirt is a sport-coat, my oversized t-shirt a button down Oxford that blends into denim. A place normally reserved for sweatpants. And finally, while I admit to the convenience of slipping on and off some comfy Crocs, it’s these worn boots that cover my feet and anchor me to the ground. Boots that weren’t necessarily made for walking, but for standing tall.
The reasons are varied. Perhaps I want to quietly stand out in a sea of souls… not for their approval, but more so mine. Maybe I want to look as if I have purpose… confidence, even if those things continue to allude me.
It may be that I dress the way I do because I want to look and feel important, or more poignantly… loved.
Loved - even if only by my self.
Or perhaps I want folks to wonder about the pages beneath the cover of this book. I do have a story, after all. It’s a strange place that I head to this evening, but not unfamiliar. I know the routine, just as if it were written on the palm of my hand. The familiar concourse will welcome me with an eerie silence. Am I the end of one day, or the beginning of the next.
Engines spin. Moan as they come to life. The lights dim, and the view outside begins to take shape. Glancing out this small window I see the skyline shine in the distance. It’s funny sometimes how we see differently in the night. Like a snow globe that has finally settled on the mantle, I can see the full structure, without any obstruction or bending of light.
Tonight I look out at almost twenty-years of memories. Sitting just to the right of that cluster of downtown lies my home. My sanctuary. I leave two precious spirits under that one roof, the true keepers of that lot. And I know that peace and love will continue to live there while I am away.
My pillow is many miles away tonight. And I’ll wake up in another place, in another time. Perhaps an hour ahead, or three behind. If I’m lucky, when I return I’ll have written new stories, met fellow passengers, made connections, and had experiences that continue to shape my identity.
My pillow is many miles away tonight I look forward to returning, but now it’s time to go…