We're at the bus terminal. Port Authority. I fell asleep in the apartment and Em tapped me on the head to wake me up. I shoved some last minute additions into my bag while Em took out the trash. And then we were outside in the humid dark, bound by backpacks and duffel bags, stumbling toward 4th Ave. We spent a silent subway ride with few fellow passengers, jolted awake together at every local stop. Switching lines, we watched orange-vested MTA employees hosing off the tracks and tiled walkways. We slid on the slick linoleum and eventually landed in Times Square, staggering blindly after pointed directions to Port Authority. Inside the worn lobby, I hoisted my duffel onto the ledge of an empty employee window as Emily queued for our tickets. I couldn't see the woman running the transactions, but I watched Emily's pale reflection in the glass as they spoke. Her lashes looked dark, long, dramatic, and they tilted with more emotion than their true selves seemed to posess. They seemed anxious, unsure, but in a tragic and beautiful way, whereas Emily herself seemed merely tired. We got tickets and wound our way toward the appropriate terminal. Having taken turns in the bathroom, we're now sitting on our biggest bags, watching people, waiting on line.
I feel homeless tonight. My shoes are too small, my belongings have broken my long frail shoulders, I've slept on the subway as best I could, and my back has pressed against surfaces that I'm sure are unsanitary. I'm wearing ratty jeans, messy pigtails, a borrowed sweatshirt. I've eaten from the sack I've been carrying for hours, and I'm leaving, by bus. I feel homeless, yes, and tired, and wise, and, mostly, young. Not young as in 22 of 70 years, but young in the span of the thousand years I suddenly feel I will live. It's an ageless thing - I'm young because I haven't slept, because I'm awake after, meaning before, what feels like everyone else in the world. I'm young because I can fit all I own into carry-on packs and leave when I want, traveling to places I don't know with people I've just met. Everyone in this terminal seems to me as young as I am tonight, regardless of actual age. We're poor, scruffy, sleepless. Some huddle in gritty corners and talk to themselves. But so many travelers here are smiling at the strangers beside them. So many are watching. Laughing. We're all waiting. And then we're all leaving. Which means, of course, that we have something ahead. And it's the ahead that makes us young.
I feel homeless tonight. My shoes are too small, my belongings have broken my long frail shoulders, I've slept on the subway as best I could, and my back has pressed against surfaces that I'm sure are unsanitary. I'm wearing ratty jeans, messy pigtails, a borrowed sweatshirt. I've eaten from the sack I've been carrying for hours, and I'm leaving, by bus. I feel homeless, yes, and tired, and wise, and, mostly, young. Not young as in 22 of 70 years, but young in the span of the thousand years I suddenly feel I will live. It's an ageless thing - I'm young because I haven't slept, because I'm awake after, meaning before, what feels like everyone else in the world. I'm young because I can fit all I own into carry-on packs and leave when I want, traveling to places I don't know with people I've just met. Everyone in this terminal seems to me as young as I am tonight, regardless of actual age. We're poor, scruffy, sleepless. Some huddle in gritty corners and talk to themselves. But so many travelers here are smiling at the strangers beside them. So many are watching. Laughing. We're all waiting. And then we're all leaving. Which means, of course, that we have something ahead. And it's the ahead that makes us young.
