Tag: Sorrow

I walk toward the security gates
feeling the weight of a thousand stars on my chest.

Ahead of me is a father-daughter duo—
a father, dropping his daughter off;
a daughter, leaving her father.

I feel connected to them,
understanding the situation too well—
the mixed feelings of nervousness, sadness—
a different type of aching.

He walks her to the start of the security line,
making sure she has her toothbrush and plane ticket,
reassuring her that it will be a smooth trip.

He looks nervous and full of sorrow,
hands shoved in his jean pockets;
she looks dejected and tired.

She walks away looking at her phone
and he watches her the entire time,
moving as close as possible to the black rope separating them.

I wish I knew more of their story,
observing it unfold parallel to mine.

I follow her through the line,
watching her approach the guard,
ticket in hand.

She passes with ease and throws a quick, worried glance over her shoulder
towards her father whose face is too far away to interpret.

I smile with crinkled, blurry eyes at the story unfolding,
step up to the guard, hand over my ID, pull down my face mask,
and thank the stranger.