I remember the leaving more than the being gone.
How my best friend drove us to the airport,
hours after he woke next to my sleepless night. I remember
how I watched him walk around the bed we shared, emotionless,
to kiss me goodbye like he was punching his timecard at the end of his final shift, and
then tossing it over his shoulder into the backseat of his car
as he drove away, never once looking in the rearview mirror.
I remember feeling so much lighter when I heard his key turn the lock
from the outside, and how our windows faced south and the parking lot was
to the east, so I didn’t have to watch him walk away. All that was left was the leaving,
the packing was finished, and the instantly-grown-up baby, my girl, got to wake up
to Mommy’s kisses, filled with emotion at the start of our big adventure, together
just the two of us. Her brand-new toddler-sized suitcase was packed with her most important
possessions the night before I slept not at all, minus her bed friends —
Jasmine, the bunny, and her yellow blanket — who got zipped up once she was up. I remember
the suitcase was red, yellow, and green with wheels and a handle she could push, or pull,
next to me carrying everything else, on our way back east. The two women seated in front of
our two seats, I remember spoke loudly about how their three-year-olds (40 years ago)
would never have pushed the seat in front of them, or ever cry for any reason.
And I remember feeling so much lighter when I drowned out their voices
to comfort my terrified toddler, whose ears were exploding from too much pressure
on the inside, and then I remembered how happy I was that my daughter was
using her voice.
