Stepping into each one feels like every other: high ceilings, moving walkways, glimpses of tarmac through thick glass.
4:30 am—PST
Two hours ago, I was falling asleep. Now, my head is in a different space, silent dreary and lulled. Groggily, dizzily, my sister steps to my door, turns the knob, and comes to wake me up. She tells me we only have thirty minutes left, so I get up, pull on my clothes, shave, forget to brush my teeth, and wish I could stumble into a hot shower. Our mom drives us to the airport, and we get coffee.
In PDX, we say goodbye to my sister and I wait for my flight at noon. It’s not long before I say goodbye to my puppy, who’s sitting in the car, and my to mom, as I’m swept into the TSA line.
From there, everything I’m used to changes. The airport is a limbo, a departure from the past, and a long line to the future—often delayed. My three flights begin to blur into simply finding where I need to be and shifting around in a seat that feels too small. I nearly miss a flight, nearly lose my passport; consistently I’m a mess at airports. I get a ticket, wait in line for the plane, and forget how long it’s been.
The cabin is rumbling as we inch closer in a final descent. To Italy from Spain, from forever ago Portland, my eyes are worn from being awake too much, but with the future coming to fruition, I know the transit limbo is soon to pass. The cusp is a nice place, the last flight, the landing.
Now I’m searching in the airport outside Rome, reflecting on the past before I make my last steps into a summer, waiting at the exit.