Terminal 5

You rush past the Friday evening slowpokes, all the time in the world and a week's work in their shoulders, you haven't the time for kind words. Sweat begins to stick on your back, a heavy pack pushing into the fabric of your shirt. You're late, so late, why were you so cavalier in leaving work and now you'll be late and then what will you do? 

But you step onto the AirTrain at Howard beach, and the cool air washes over you, the clean floors and wide open spaces, and you haven't a care left in the world. You follow the anxious murmuring crowd through security, smile as the guard picks at your tragic bags, move calmly, confidently through the mazes. Nothing can touch you now. 

The plane is late, after all. You sit at the window seat -always the window seat- and watch the late evening sun turn to fire on the runway. Silently keeping your fingers crossed of the flight route, that it will carry your side of the plane across the skyline, give you that moment which soothes your soul more than anything you've yet to know. 

The best part of leaving this place

is knowing you will be back.