Terminal B (Part 1)
1,580 miles of travel, 4,740 seconds of a 79-minute layover, and the 237 passengers of Terminal B come to weigh heavily on the mind in the moments before the point of no return. Here, on the concourse, not far from the gate that reads “Laredo, 9:05PM” is another that reads “Los Angeles, 8:55PM.” To think that ten minutes is all the difference there can be between one life and another causes the mind to race and the heart to flutter. And in the weariness of the travelled way, you wonder if this could all be real and not just something you are dreaming up inside your head.
The other people, the other planes, and the other names above the gates – they are all here to help you, to help you make an impossible choice. And so it is easier sometimes, in Terminal B, where the sun always seems to be setting, to pretend that in the weight of the last few hours that as every door closes behind you, the world there, but not here, before but not ahead of you, slows to a dead stop mid-spin.
And you remember the names and the faces as they were because two steps before the unknown it is always more comforting to reach for the familiar. And it’s easier to think that they will stay the same, because then at least, you would have something to return to. And so you remember them, every single one of them – how they were and how they promised to be, because sometimes all you have is that point of promise and the surety that you will happen across this place and these people again.
And it is always easier to think that way…until you do. For upon your return the world you thought you left lying in state is different from what it was and far different from your own. And you try to be a part of it as you were, but you cannot because the world where you are coming from turns just a little slower. Different. Beautiful. And you cry out to try to explain, and for them to understand, but everyone is still turning a little too fast to hear…or a little too fast to notice…or a little too fast to care.
And yet, you still hold fast to the point of promise and surety, you hold fast to hope that they will one day remember you as you remembered them, before your heart caves to the slow burn they have set on the concourse in Terminal B.
