Sunday morning, Newark Airport.
There’s something peaceful and spacious about airports.
I don’t mean physical space, more mental.
A kind of respite, an approved time to be pseudo-online, there but not.
An early flight turns to delayed departure.
Time goes from linear, back and forth
To north and south, skyscraper heights.
Like a hallway leading to a palatial room,
And invites sleepy eyelids and work-horse body to release.
I watch high schoolers come and go from their gate.
There’s the popular, the artist, the nerd, and everything in between.
All of them scream love me, accept me!
Makes me think of my teens.
Where did I fit in?
Did I ever?
I wanted to be them all.
I was the inquisitive one, the shy one, the walking contradiction.
Begging to be loud and rambunctious and invisible all at the same time.
A bird skips up and down an aisle of chairs.
It seeks food like a wanderer, like us.
You are caught in here, my friend.
So are we.
Big windows reveal the machinery of human minds
Each aircraft with staff to repair, refill and prepare for the next destination.
They look like giants being bathed by ants.
I breathe in my surrounds
And find solace in the quiet
In being the witnesser of these passerby’s.
Moms and dads
Happy couples, and then not
Moms with son, and sons with his own son
Friends and enemies
Wanderers, like my bird.