I Can Be Your Long-Lost

Immigrations at JFK is a maze of unanswered questions and time spent staring at walls, feeling guilty over nothing and wondering if the way you fold your arms looks suspicious. Do you know I had feelings once so strong I thought they’d devour you, and nothing that happened after proved me wrong.

Outside the arrivals doors, though, the air was mild, immensely humid, my hair curled like a yawn but everything was perfect somehow. The street smelled like the sea. Late night riders on the A train reminded me what this place is: the skinny, unruly guys up front chatting for the whole car to hear, the tired old man, the person of unclear gender and enviable hair taking selfies in the corner, a young girl yelling into her phone every time we got reception at the subway stations. Across the platform, crews scrubbed down Kingston-Throop ave: someone has to do that, too. Voices travel across my screen: are you home yet? A quirky tag on my luggage reads we all have our baggage. I’ve stared mine in the eyes this week. I have seen the chasms of my past and a person I’d rather not see. And maybe that’s the whole point. Baggage serves a purpose. 

When you no longer need it, you simply empty it out

and let it go.