Terminal Clock

Posted on December 7, 2008

2


I’m sitting along the wall at a gate in the new terminal. It’s early December and I’m at the airport on a dark Thursday night. The concourse stretches out in front of me and behind me like a never-ending hallway. I can hear the mid-pitch hum of the moving walkways that run down the middle of the hallway. There is a giant screen tv that almost takes up the entire top of the wall behind me. I can’t see the screen, but it’s bright and I can see the brilliant flashes of color on the white columns lining the windows. Everyone from my gate and the next was facing me, their tired eyes staring up at the screen. Their faces held quiet expectancy and fizzing faith. My boyfriend was leaning his head back. He was holding my hand; eyes cosed with headphones in his ears. A tram snaked its way past the gate and down through the concourse on its track on the next story. Outside, through the wall of black, I can see small flurries and lights on the runway.

I am away from the urgency of the clock and swimming in a quiet corner of the world. For a moment I am not gasping and inhaling to survive; I am breathing and awake.

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