The thundercloud parking garage swallows me whole and drains the authenticity from my smile. The descending escalator sends me to my personal hell. All I can think of is my counterfeit countenance or the carefree singing voice of my mother. I grasp at the sound, the long lost curl of her hair, the sun of her eyes. It's like trying to catch smoke. The tears before security tell me I'm not alone though the final embrace of my mom disagrees. She disappears, fades into the metal detectors. I'm alone. I float through the crowd, past half-machine men, their brows furrowed in stone as they slice through lines without one last look at the family they wish they had. They race to winged robots that autograph the sky like the parting at the end of a letter. The goodbye. The stain mochas of Starbucks beckon me. The neon magazines cheer at me from Hudson News. Together, we watch the clouds gobble the planes, mourn the farewell of the familiar, the leaving of love. Rain pummels the windows like tears down a face. Again, the machine men, the magazines and mochas comfort and reassure everything will be alright.