Gate 4

The airport is coolly air conditioned, the usual collections of entirely diverse travelers, tired security personnel, and overly made up duty free salespeople. Outside the tall windows, a bright afternoon sun beams on the tarmac and the deep blue sea beyond. I shift uncomfortably in my seat, my gut unwilling to accept departure. Images of dark New York streets and the early alarm clock tomorrow nag at my edges. I was not ready to go. You are never ready to go. The baby waved a frantic giggling goodbye at the curb and it broke my heart to leave him, to not wake up every morning to his smile but know that he is growing up without his aunt around him. He deserves to take my presence for granted, and the fault is all mine that he can't. It begins to mean more that I leave people. They are not filler materials for my literary backdrops. Perhaps they never were; I've just been too ignorant to see it. 

The conditioned air cools the droplets of sweat on my brow. Zips me back up into composure. The flight to America appears on the screen, announces its On Time departure. Tomorrow is F train commute and business as usual. This softness of my skin will harden again.