I always sneak my headphones back on right after the flight crew buckles in, before the plane takes off. I also got a huge ipod for Christmas and now shuffle is like this uncontrollable freak out of music; a seemingly unorganized chaos that has shaped the last ten years of my life. Owen Pallet (I'm still learning to love him) exploded into my head at the same time the jets took the plane from rolling down the runway to full bast-off into the sky. (I love/hate that part.)
As I looked out over Rhode Island's ragged coastline, it popped into my head that I was never going to visit my old home as the person I was at that moment. I guess that's kind of always true, but this time was different. I had no real plan to go back, no real reason, no real concept of what my life would be like next time I even got out of a plane in the states. (!)
I sunk into this dreamy reflection state the whole way back to Chicago, through Midway, my routine post-plane ride bathroom break, to baggage claim, where I picked up my uncomfortably pristine-looking backpack. My bag, my possessions, everything I have to vouch for will be showing up like that on conveyors, or a man yelling words that I can't understand will toss it down to me from a roof rack, or it will emerge from a mysterious compartment in the belly of a train. It hit me then that for the next year I will be exiting planes, trains, and buses, in new destination after new destination, and not one of them will be home. All I will have to comfort me is that feeling of excitement when my bag rounds the bend and it's my turn to claim my stuff.
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