I am headed home.
I can feel the vibration of the engine before I hear its roar. I look out over the wing and see the belt loader lifting suitcases into her belly. Cardboard boxes, duffel bags, suitcases covered in clear wrap. If I peer closely enough, I can make out the characters of another language written in black marker. I wonder what stories are hidden in that luggage.
Bags are hefted above shoulders into the overhead bins. Flight attendants traverse the aisles, their heels soft on the carpeted floor. They reach up to close the overfilled bins. Passengers call out across the row, excuse me, I think that’s my seat.
I can feel my legs tingling from the 20,000 steps I walked every day for the last month. I pull out my flight socks—navy blue knee highs, dotted with pink flamingos, tightening as I pull them up my calf. I hurry to get them on, embarrassed to need them. I idly scroll through hundreds of photos. My reminiscing only interrupted by the cacophony of boarding around me. I pull out my phone charger and Kindle, shoving both into the seatback pocket. My backpack, still stuffed, lies at my feet. It holds everything I need to get through this flight.
My seatmates arrive. They will be my companions for the fifteen-hour flight home. On some flights, there is silence. Passengers arrive with their ears covered in headphones, staring at the screen, as if they can make the departure come sooner. The silence is broken only by the apology for needing to use the bathroom.
But on this flight, my seatmates want to talk. Sitting down next to me is a Hmong woman. Her American name is Maryann. I’ve shared that I was in Cambodia and Laos. Her voice slows, as she tells me she is a survivor of the Vietnam War refugee camps. She is just returning from visiting her family. Her husband sits quietly next to her, reading a newspaper in a language I don’t understand.
We talk across the armrest. Her kids. My kids. My home—Chicago. Her home—Wisconsin.
As the plane lifts into the air, the flight attendants begin the in-flight announcements. I look out the window. I plug my nose to clear my ears. I turn back towards Maryann, and she is talking softly to her husband. I put on the headphones and start scrolling the entertainment selection. I watch reruns of Friends until dinner is over.
As the flight attendants turn down the lights and close the shades, I go to sleep. I wake up somewhere between where I was and where I’m headed next.