One of the two watches on my wrist tells me it’s five AM her time. It’s bubblegum pink and always running on Greenwich Mean Time. The other watch, with its silver band and sharp hands, reminds me it’s three PM here at Melbourne Airport.
Screens flicker with arrival and departure times. My steps echo on the tiles, all ache and ache and ache, the sound slicing through the late January quiet, through rows of empty chairs and baggage carousels.
Families are already back at work after the holidays, loved ones sent far away to help send other loved ones home. Some are sent to build radio towers all over the country. Towers that carry voices through the air and across oceans so vast and blue and distant, just like magic, to find the pilots waiting to hear them. And these pilots carry our loved ones through the air back to this island so big and red and lonely, just like magic, to find me waiting in the Arrivals terminal here at Melbourne Airport.
There she is, with her dad. My girl, her hair tied with ribbons, shouldering an oversized backpack, bubblegum pink, and inky shadows under her eyes because it’s five AM her time.
She’s running to me, jetlagged beautifully, running on Greenwich Mean Time.
No comments:
Post a Comment