Sep 2016
you're yelling at me to hurry up because we're going to miss our flight. i'm still standing in the shower at 7:08am, having locked you out of the hotel room we booked with the money we didn't spend on textbooks.
i'm staring out the window as people depart from the terminal. my hair is dripping wet. i focus on the sound of the drops hitting the carpet rather than watching you sit up in anticipation every time the woman on the intercom announces who's leaving and when and where to go.
i bet you wish someone had told you that about me. someone in a uniform with wings pinned to their blazer, assuring i will get where i'm going safely. i can't tell if you're eager for this thing to get rid of me already, or making sure you know how to respond when it does. either way, it feels like you've decided i'm already more gone than not.
you didn't think about this when we were high school students on the field and in the bleachers. you didn't know that i intentionally didn't have a four-year plan. you didn't know that i didn't have one at all. i wasn't guaranteed the opportunity and burden to sit here as you panic in silence anymore than the next person. but i knew you were going to find new meanings for the words "departure" and "terminal".
the cabin air pressure gives me an excruciating ear ache, and my nose starts bleeding. while you were too busy freaking out, frantically pressing the attendant button, i pulled a napkin out of my purse, looking away, more embarrassed by you than anything else. i make eye contact with a kid sitting in the middle aisle, and she starts crying. she tugs on her mother's sleeve, yelling, "mommy, she's bleeding! that lady's bleeding!"
her mother glances back at me with an apologetic smile, and eventually calms her daughter down, who seems more panicked about being on the plane with a dead person than my actual well being. i don't blame her. i have the empathetic capacity of a young child as well. being lightheaded and thousands of feet in the air doesn't allow much room for me to care or think about much else either.
a few minutes pass, and i've dozed off, but not so deeply that i don't hear the kid whisper, "is she gonna die?"
the attendant has made her round back to me, and asks me "miss, are you okay?" the tissues stuffed up my nostril are soaked in dark, red blood. i sigh.
"mommy, is she gonna die?" the kid repeats, tugging again.
i nod, more to the girl than the attendant and close my eyes again.
i'm staring out the window as people depart from the terminal. my hair is dripping wet. i focus on the sound of the drops hitting the carpet rather than watching you sit up in anticipation every time the woman on the intercom announces who's leaving and when and where to go.
i bet you wish someone had told you that about me. someone in a uniform with wings pinned to their blazer, assuring i will get where i'm going safely. i can't tell if you're eager for this thing to get rid of me already, or making sure you know how to respond when it does. either way, it feels like you've decided i'm already more gone than not.
you didn't think about this when we were high school students on the field and in the bleachers. you didn't know that i intentionally didn't have a four-year plan. you didn't know that i didn't have one at all. i wasn't guaranteed the opportunity and burden to sit here as you panic in silence anymore than the next person. but i knew you were going to find new meanings for the words "departure" and "terminal".
the cabin air pressure gives me an excruciating ear ache, and my nose starts bleeding. while you were too busy freaking out, frantically pressing the attendant button, i pulled a napkin out of my purse, looking away, more embarrassed by you than anything else. i make eye contact with a kid sitting in the middle aisle, and she starts crying. she tugs on her mother's sleeve, yelling, "mommy, she's bleeding! that lady's bleeding!"
her mother glances back at me with an apologetic smile, and eventually calms her daughter down, who seems more panicked about being on the plane with a dead person than my actual well being. i don't blame her. i have the empathetic capacity of a young child as well. being lightheaded and thousands of feet in the air doesn't allow much room for me to care or think about much else either.
a few minutes pass, and i've dozed off, but not so deeply that i don't hear the kid whisper, "is she gonna die?"
the attendant has made her round back to me, and asks me "miss, are you okay?" the tissues stuffed up my nostril are soaked in dark, red blood. i sigh.
"mommy, is she gonna die?" the kid repeats, tugging again.
i nod, more to the girl than the attendant and close my eyes again.
