“Come here, give me a hug before you go.”
That’s the only time I can remember my dad hugging me. It was the early hours of the morning, we were at the airport, just before the point where those without a boarding pass could go no further. I wouldn’t see my dad again until a few years later.
Airports are strange places. They’re gateways to both brief getaways and new chapters, places of hellos and goodbyes.
Nobody ever remembers flights, only incidents that happen during and in between. Time becomes transient. The journey is unimportant because the journey is miserable. There is nothing redeeming about being in a big metal tube in the sky.
Somehow, everything awful fades together into some ugly backdrop. Even the shrill window-shattering cries of infants become white noise.
I remember falling asleep a lot, getting woken up by my mother whenever the attendant came with drinks or food, or if I was really knocked-out, I’d wake up to some little snacks in the back pocket of the seat ahead of me.
Nobody makes eye contact with you in airports. Nobody pays attention. Everyone’s just passing through, trying to get to the next patch of dirt as soon as possible.
Places aren’t that hard to leave. You can always come back to them, and if not, you can always bring them to you in some small way: cooking their famous dishes at home, watching movies or playing video games set there, reading books and online posts typed up on computers there. Places aren’t hard to leave. People are.
I’ve only made a major move twice in my life, both times I’ve left friends behind that I never fully reconnected with. Once I graduate in a few weeks, I’m planning to move again. Louisiana’s never really been my kind of place, and in the 20-plus years I’ve spent here, it never really grew on me.
Living in my hometown of Singapore then coming back here just reminded me of how much I like being somewhere that has things going on. City streets packed with life and activity, instead of desolate stroads flanked by strip malls half-filled by abandoned storefronts.
When I left Singapore, my closest friends came to see me off. There’s a picture of us on my phone that my mom took on my last day in the country.
We’re standing in front of the wide glass windows inside the airport before Departures, arms around each other. My bodybuilder friend is giving a thumbs-up, another one of my friends is looking up into space as if he forgot where he was (and he probably did).
I remember the three weeks I spent in Montana visiting my first girlfriend. When it came time to fly back, getting up from my seat beside her to head through the security checkpoint seemed like the hardest thing I ever had to do.
She texted me later to tell me she stayed and watched until she couldn’t see me anymore, then stayed longer in case, somehow, I could still see her.
The thought of moving again is scary. My future is uncertain right now, I’m not entirely sure what I’ll be doing with myself. I’d been planning to continue studying creative writing in graduate school, but I was rejected from the two places I’d applied to. I’ll try again, someday.
But it’s exciting too. I’m going to look for work in my dream city (in America, at least). I have a friend that lives not too far from New York City that I can crash with until I find a place and a stable job.
I’ve never been there before, and I think most people say you should at least spend some time in a city before moving there, but I’m sure I’ll like it there just fine. Besides, I can always just move again.
That, I think, is the most important thing to have in life. The ability to move, to not feel completely trapped somewhere or tied down to one place.
You’ll leave people and loved ones behind, but it’s easier than ever to stay connected to the people you want to keep close. Every move is a new opportunity, a chance to discover a part of the world and of yourself that you never knew before.