Terminal B

How often have I walked these exact steps, maneuvered this giant suitcase, schlepped up and down dirty, dusty, smelly New York stairs, sailed in and out of trains and shuttles, I know the exact smell of the terminal carpets, the familiar sense of being in transit, is this what home is? Seems as likely as anything. He calls from across the river and suddenly the world is smaller again, how it expands and softens with every breath you take keeping track of loved ones, do they know they made your heart grow to reach the whole world? She writes from across the ocean and revels in disappearing time zones, when I look at the Manhattan skyline from the airport there’s a twinge in my chest where the joy should be. How after all these years I fear every departure could actually be for real.

That’s the thing about home. I fight so hard to find it, I am reluctant to ever let it go. And I still wish you would be the home I carried with me always

regardless the land under my feet.