What’s At The Airport?

I’m going to smoke a bit. Drink some seltzer water. Will I make it to D.C. safely? Yes, I know I will. Flying… I think… I believe if I had stayed, some of them would be alive right now, you know?

I came home from a long day at the office. Actually, I might have been out with friends, living my life. But I did collapse on the edge of my bed. I looked up and saw the clock at 11. I thought, “I should call him.” But then I told myself that they are two hours ahead of me. So, I promised myself to call him in the morning. I laid my head down, thinking, “Make sure to call him in the morning.” A few hours later, I wake up in a haze, hearing tapping to profuse knocking at my door. The banging persisted. I hate being jolted awake. Then fear struck because I remembered my friend had an argument with her partner. So, I got up, still hazy, letting the walls guide me to the door, and when I opened it, I knew something worse had happened.

Next, I’m pulling my carry-on across the entrance of the plane, standing packed in a single file line, between bodies pressed together, giving a nod or a tight smile to avoid the awkward proximity of strangers touching me. I sat down, looking around this enclosed metal tube, and I heard a small static thought whisper, “You started this.” And I knew it was because I had left. And then people started leaving me.

At my pawpaw's funeral, all I could see were the fluorescent lights that made these tan-stained benches look more yellow, and the sun’s rays pouring through the orange-stained glass windows of the church. Everything was bright, and we all sat there in black. The singer was horrible—an acquaintance of my grandmother. Each time she opened her mouth, I heard a goose’s squawk shrill over us. After he passed, I became distrustful of life. Resentful. It wasn’t fair. He didn’t deserve his death… not by the way he lived his life. And what I’ve been holding inside is the feeling that death is not fair to us. That it doesn’t choose us by our deeds.

For 27 years, life gave me so much. Moment after moment, I felt like I was on a lucky streak. And then it all ran out. And honestly, will I get on that plane to D.C.? I don’t know. I cannot predict the last time I will see anyone that I love, and it makes me sad—deep, grief-stricken sadness.