Flight

4.5 hours,

The drone of the hairdryer

In the mirror, a smile is staged and stiff,

Dressed and ready,

I watch the city pulse below my window, feeling dizzy

My skin is taut, a parched landscape,

4 Hours,

I-20 packed?

Passport in the bag?

SIM card ejector did you bring?

My parents' voices, urgent and frayed,

I am anchored to the sofa.

The sun bakes the windowpanes, filling the room with a heavy, drowsy light.

My eyes trace the relics of my life:

the old poor piano, bought when I was four;

the family portrait on the wall, smiles frozen in varnish;

my dog in my lap, who nuzzles my hand and lets out a confused whine.

3.5 Hours,

The clean cotton of my shirt breathes a faint scent of laundry soap.

Hair carries the clinging, sweet perfume of rosehip oil.

A dull pain begins its tempo at my temples.

They carried my belongings into the trunk,

The smell of gasoline rises, a nauseous fume.

We drive.

The noodle shop, the dessert parlor, the library, the theater—

a reel of my former world, spooling away behind the glass.

I close my eyes, and when I open them,

a swarm of strangers pulls me back to the present.

The airport looms. International Terminal 3.

2.5 Hours,

We join the sluggish line.

A neck pillow hangs from my shoulder, heavy as stone.

I sit onto my overstuffed suitcase,

Dad’s hand rests on the handle, a steadying weight.

Mom presses a cup into my hands—my favorite, brown sugar boba.

The pearls are sweet, bittersweet.

We inch forward.

The crowd blurs, like a watercolor of noise and movement.

“No hugging?” they asked,

I fall into their embrace, a tangle of arms and held breaths,

then wrench myself free.

I hoist my backpack, grip the suitcase handle.

The crowd swallows my shape, muffles my choked sob.

1 Hour,

The terminal is a vast, noisy lounge.

I find a seat and order a bowl of beef noodles.

This is the last true taste, I think,

something I will not find where I am going.

The steam carries the pungent kick of white pepper,

the chili oil swirls in the broth,

the noodles are chewy,

the broth a deep, bone-warmth.

A final sprinkle of cilantro on top.

It is my last supper.

My tears fall, salting the rich broth,

and I swallow them both.

0,

I hand my ticket to the stewardess, a paper passport.

A procession through aisles of wider seats—Business, First, Premium—

until I find my own in Economy, 42A.

I nod to the figure by the window. "Excuse me."

I buckle in.

I know the digital void is coming.

I know my phone holds a torrent of messages from my mother.

I cannot look.

Three.

Two.

One.

A chime, then a voice, smooth and placid.

"Dear passengers, the plane is now preparing for takeoff..."