We scurry,

because the airport is two hours away

on a good day.

 

We wait in line,

because we never travel during the off seasons.

“Carpe diem” subsides to the immigrant hustle.

 

The luggage is heavier than it ought to be;

somehow that’s no surprise.

Extra fees. Extra wrapping. Wallets out.

 

We take in the scene,

because airports are both an experience of rushed chaos

and deep gratitude for the privilege.

 

We wait at the gate.

The families look like ours; we hear our dialect.

For a moment, our stories align with a real narrative.