By Kelly Q. Anderson
Four new passports are buried in the closet. Before we churched on Sunday, we swung by Walgreens in pressed collars and combed hair. Smile, Flash, Print. I had completed the stack of applications in my neatest penmanship, and endured the hell of an appointment at the United States Postal Service.
There would be no stroll through Hudson News. No usual grab of bottled water, spearmint gum, and Auntie Anne’s pretzel for the kids, their bitty fingers flecked in rock salt. The terminals would miss the soles of our Adidas sneakers, the empty gum wrappers of my son, and the last-minute iPad charge from my husband. My impatient voice would not ring out, not plea for everyone to use the bathroom one last time. There would be no arrival at the gate, outlined in digital red. No shifting or smiling from the ticketing agents, no hands outstretched.
Our ears would remain unpopped and the magazines would be unread. I wouldn’t stretch my legs in the cramp of the plane and feel the crunch of my lower back. No chance to gather the peanuts, to eat them later in the rental car, which had always been my thing. In the event of an emergency — no, there is no emergency.
Further south, a palm tree would fan an empty chair. Beaded bracelets would not get purchased for the neighbor watering plants. Johnnycakes would not get fried and golden. Sailboats would remain knotted and bobbing. Grandparents wouldn’t stroll the sand, pressing creamy shells into little hands. The sky would not turn pink, then mauve, then russet, then lavender gray. The salt air would not ripple the delicate forearm fuzz. No hand would encircle my waist and look upon the horizon.
When I sit alone in the feathered grass of my backyard, I consider the silent sky arched above me. I think of the heavy exhale that hits when switching from climate to climate. I consider a mountain’s pure snowcap, walks in looming gardens, and jazz music on the wooden stage. I ponder the puddles we step into, the way we can just brush it off when it happens on holiday. I consider the food we eat in the street, wrapped in greasy parchment, the contents hot-salty-delicious. How a curb can sometimes be a perfect seat. I think of humid dinners in floral clothes and a straw hat that felt right in the store but is questionable now. I imagine pilots, thousands and thousands, splayed on couches. Their arms are extended, full wingspan.