I’m in another airport,
going this time to a closer place than usual. It feels just as scary.
I have memorized the walk through the concourse,
And tend to let my eyes go blurry as I walk through metal detectors and stand on the moving walkway.
When your heart yearns to see the world,
it is so largely difficult to have a giant hand cover that heart and pull on me, every time I step onto a plane.
The giant hand has its roots in my home, in my friends and family, and in comfort and familiarity.
I let my eyes well up and spill over every time I have to say goodbye to all of that, even for a short time.
I grasp onto the giant hand, holding onto it with everything in me, covering my eyes with it and seeing my new destinations as something blue and big and bad. It doesn’t matter where the plane is going.
I’ve gotten better at it. Pulling the hand away from its tight grasp and putting it gently on my shoulder, or in my pocket, or on the seat next to me.
Travelling alone is a big scary beast, and I cry, begging for the hand to grow arms and legs and a face that I recognize and can hug during takeoff and landing.
I am brave. That’s what everybody tells me. If that’s true, then why do I feel like I’m watching myself from above?
I want to have fun, I really do. I want to let go and embrace the unknown.
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