C Bar, Logan Airport, Boston, MA

Veil, 2010, by Charlotte Bracegirdle

So we landed at LAX early, touching the tarmac a half hour earlier than planned for, hoping the shuttle service was able to take us.  Strolling through corridors we breached the security seal of a turnstile and discovered the cool California air, knowing we were almost home.  The shuttle kiosk was found minutes later, then the waiting game began.

In Boston, fresh from a turbulent ride in a tiny plane (eight seats and a pilot, with a din so loud lip reading was the only way to communicate) we set off in search a bar, a drink.  Two pints in a half empty airport bar, CNN blaring over the wall of liquor in the central well; it was here that realized it was time to let go.  Two turbulent days, with evenings fraught with discussions, uncertainty, and dogma, were behind us now.  S for the first time in several days, smiled (in a manner that causes roses to blush, creating heart palpitations within my own chest).   Some strange sense that we had survived something, a near miss of an asteroid,  an unmapped volcanic eruption,  or a crevasse opening in a slow moving glacier under our feet.  These were all possibilities, scar tissue both seen and hidden dotting our bodies being testament to something having occurred that entailed peril.  But that was now behind us, we had survived.

Neither of us wished to talk about it, having freshly lived it.  Instead, in the solace of a airport bar, we talked about our children, the work we are doing, the desire to pick tomatoes in the garden, to be back under the protective shelter of ancient oak trees.   In remembering the life that we had created, the victories that have been won and are yet to be confronted and conquered, we touched the ground.  In an airport bar we discovered ourselves again.

Packed into a shuttle van we slowly meandered through the streets of Los Angeles, making various stops as other weary travelers were delivered to hotels, a bus station, and schools.  Being at the furthest point we were the second to last, the van climbing out of the basin into the foothills that encircle LA.  During the entire trip the driver chattered on about this and that, mostly about himself, his divorce, his parents death, and the challenges of driving through the various parts of the city.   Moments of silence became more frequent the closer we came to being home, the streets growing darker as the homes grew larger.

It was then that we found our home, we arrived home.




About Sarah Seager

I am an artist that works and lives in the wilds of Los Angeles.
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