Opening up the Box

People sprinted to their gates. People everywhere in chaotic unison, rushing to get out of airplanes from different places in the world. They followed arrows pointed toward baggage claim. A few entered convenience stores, where workers stocked shelves during the rush of the evening arrivals. The workers, all spread out in the store, staring unfazed over counter tops while that one customer at the front of the line seeks encouragement and holds up the 5 other people, all of which toe tapped and waited for his story to end. They were all spent, standing around waiting for the stream of time to rush down the drain. 

Alone at a round table in the middle of the terminal concourse in the SeaTac Airport, I was free from the shackles of a job. Who knew that the I reached down to unzip my bag, the only thing keeping me company on the road. In the messiness of crumpled underwear, junk food wrappers, and unopened envelopes, I pulled out a notebook. I reached for the bottom of the bag, and I pulled out the barrel of a pen. I dug around, searching for the tip. Once I gathered the spring and the tip, I felt the fabric at the bottom – still dry. My bag had lived another day. I felt around the bottom and the thin plastic that was the ink chamber at the bottom of the bag. 

I watched as people sprinted to their gates. People everywhere in chaotic unison, rushing to get out of airplanes from different places in the world. A lot followed the arrows pointed toward baggage claim. A few entered convenience stores, where workers stocked shelves during the rush of the evening arrivals. 

I sat alone at a round table in the middle of the terminal concourse of SeaTac. I was thinking about a recurring dream I had been having. I reached down to open my bag. In the messiness of crumpled clothes and paperwork, I pulled out my notebook. I reached for a pen at the bottom of the bag. I began writing about it:

There I am. I am in my childhood bedroom standing amidst stacks of packed boxes that reach toward the high ceilings. There are 5 people standing at the entrance of the bedroom, all standing in a row. I start pass them the boxes down a line and the room soon becomes empty. When I get to the last box, I turn to pick it up. When I attempt to pass the box down the line, I see that there is no one around. I am alone. There is no one there to pass the last box to. I sit down. I begin opening up the box. But before I can open the box, I wake up.

I put down my pen then leaned back. I placed my palms at the side of my chair, planted my feet on the ground, and stood up to stretch. A tickling sensation in my left jean pocket brushed against my thigh. The sound of metal jangled as it dropped to the bottom of my pocket. These were the keys of the apartment in Seattle that I had just moved into.

There were a lot of reasons why I was leaving New York. I wanted to leave to start a new life. I wanted to settle down with my partner at the time and raise kids. We could own something and become the people that we had dreamed of becoming in the big city. It would be a fresh start. I had been planning to leave New York for a while, and I wanted to move to Washington. It was somewhere from my past life. I had lived in Bremerton years ago, just a ferry ride away from Seattle. I remembered the joy of being of being in Seattle. There was the time I was lost in a crowd of people and looking up at the gray sky, as if it were a wide blanket of clarity. Then there was the field trip to the Seattle Aquarium. It was a rainy day, where I was careful while walking on slippery docks. I was far away from home, out in the world, and away from the emptiness.

I readjusted my posture then wrote “Next Steps.” I had hoped that someone would look over my shoulder and validate the importance of these words. “Wow, this kid really is onto something?” I imagined them saying.

I looked up from my notebook to remind myself of where I was. I had made it this far in the process. An immense pride washed over me, and I pushed aside the fear of moving. I had done this before. Many times. Over and over again. Even if I had to go back east to pack up my life for the last six years, this would be the final time I would ever have to do it. I would no longer have to move ever again. I would not have to search for where I was headed to next.

I then noticed an older couple walk past with their oversize luggage. I recoiled, as if their presence within my vicinity would cause me to turn to vapor. I could just disappear I thought. As they walked by, a couple of kids trailed them. They looked like kids with their teenaged years ahead, beckoning them to arrive. They looked like one big happy family. I wondered where they were headed. Were they here to return home? Or were they on a long and winding road in search of it?

For me home was on the road. I was brought up as a military brat, and I from moved station to station every few years.

My father was in the Navy – an officer with significant tours under his belt, being away for months at a time. My mother was his loyal and supportive wife. She had raised a pack of kids while running a tightly run ship at home. My sister was the eldest, paving the trail for a path. She traveled places to see what the world had to offer often as adventures with her group of friends. My brother, the middle kid, was a creative guy with a mechanical mind that had his eyes set on military service for as long as I could remember.

As a unit, we leaned on each other during our moves to different countries. We crossed borders. We overcame things in our path that wreaked havoc and tested us even in our most enduring trips. We were a military family, and we always arrived at our destinations with our heads held high. For as long as I could remember, our lives were connected, even if we had not spoken with each other in a very long time.

Then there was me, the entrusted child that was to follow the footsteps of those that had been here long before me. I was now 27 years old. I was unemployed. I had no credit. I was living in an apartment that had decayed in both life and love.

I closed my notebook and threw it back into my bag. I thought about where I was just 48 hours ago. In New York City, even as I walked along 5th Avenue at the peak of rush hour failing to find direction, I wondered if this aimless and intentional scrapping with passersby would indicate to me I should be headed toward. I watched as trains zoomed past me. The air pushed against me to remind me of the uncontrollable forces that dictated my life. But all of that was going to change.

In the middle of the concourse, I leaned over the table and placed my elbows on the cold, flat surface. I put my face into my hands. As I closed my eyes, I searched through the dark abyss for an image of who I wanted to be. I saw nothing. I saw no one.