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transit, /ˈtranzət;/ n.
the act or fact of passing across or through
i.
Remember, Strand on movement: I move to keep things whole.
ii.
Transit has always been a kinder, yet melancholic form of waiting. Essentially, it's what it is-- waiting for something to take me from where I am to another. To bring you from a place of comfort to another, and it's always been like that, from the moment we're put in this world, we're constantly in some form of transit.
iii.
Eight months is a long time to be away from home, so when mother said, "pick the flight with the shortest transit," I knew she was really saying, "I miss you." I could already see her face despite the poor lighting in her hotel in Beijing, eyebrows furrowed. When my dad, with his old engineering background calculated the speed of winds that would buoy my plane over the ocean, I knew he was really saying, "We've been waiting."
the act or fact of passing across or through
i.
Remember, Strand on movement: I move to keep things whole.
ii.
Transit has always been a kinder, yet melancholic form of waiting. Essentially, it's what it is-- waiting for something to take me from where I am to another. To bring you from a place of comfort to another, and it's always been like that, from the moment we're put in this world, we're constantly in some form of transit.
iii.
Eight months is a long time to be away from home, so when mother said, "pick the flight with the shortest transit," I knew she was really saying, "I miss you." I could already see her face despite the poor lighting in her hotel in Beijing, eyebrows furrowed. When my dad, with his old engineering background calculated the speed of winds that would buoy my plane over the ocean, I knew he was really saying, "We've been waiting."
I'd been waiting too. When I clicked Confirm and said, "It's done," when I waved at the grainy video of my parents sitting separately at different hotel rooms in different parts of China, when I wished them good night, I was really saying, "I can't wait to see you."
iv.
If the passage from one point to another unfolds as a play, then transit is the intermission. It is the momentary pause, a breath released, a body realigned with movement. It is a gathering of comrades, protagonists, of a hundred different stories settled in the same airport loung-- free champagne and all-- counting down the hours to takeoff. Curtains closed on tired eyes. Travelers huddled in the dressing rooms of phone apps and Wi-Fi. Outside, the lead actors drift across the tarmac, wings folded, waiting their turn to take the stage.
v.
J sits beside me, her head is heavy on my shoulder but I dare not move. She looks like she's dreaming. She looks even younger without her makeup on. She needed this, I thought, asking her to go with me, only I rephrased it in a way where it sounded like a favor. I wonder what kind of journey she's taking, with her heart so heavy, or if she knew that she's stepping into another phase of her womanhood-- she is not a child anymore even if she doesn't look any older than 16.
vi.
I read messages from K. I smile and slip a hand over the journal I brought, fingertips tracing over the page where his pen had touched the paper.
The journey to Las Vegas stretches over the ocean, and transit is the bottle in the waves, carrying a note from far away. "Halfway there," say my text messages. "Ok," say my mother's, the laconic reply to a longwinded wait.
vii.
Airports are emotions compressed: a persistent goodbye, an unbroken reunion, the endless collision of departures and arrivals. Transit is emotion unwound, a dose of time meant to slow the heart and calm the brain. I watch a couple doze on each other's shoulders. I watch J play on her phone, lift her gaze back to me and snuggle cutely, like a child yearning attention. I give in. I see a mother lulling her baby to sleep. Evening dims the sky and light the moon. My reflection slowly appears in the windows, a reminder of the hours, a step closer to my destination.
I write in between. Sometimes after each meal, sometimes when J is sleeping. I write to myself, I write to K-- which feels like writing to myself, most of the time.
viii.
Transit is the comma in the middle of the last sentence. I already know how the story ends: the announcements murmuring over the speakers, the gates opening, the familiar whirr of the plane. The stars blink awake and beckon. I can't tell the difference between the roar of takeoff and the roar of blood in my ears, but I know the sound of leaving -- the punctuation of seatbelts, a period clicking into place.
ix.
13 hours is a long time to wait, so when I reach Las Vegas, see my cousins beaming and my mother in her red jacket and sun visor to cover her sensitive skin-- she doesn't say anything-- because I know she's really saying "I'm happy to see you,". As I write this I think about the way she rubbed my back, held on to my waist for a quick second. My father, unshy, kissing the top of my head. I have landed, but I keep moving.
iv.
If the passage from one point to another unfolds as a play, then transit is the intermission. It is the momentary pause, a breath released, a body realigned with movement. It is a gathering of comrades, protagonists, of a hundred different stories settled in the same airport loung-- free champagne and all-- counting down the hours to takeoff. Curtains closed on tired eyes. Travelers huddled in the dressing rooms of phone apps and Wi-Fi. Outside, the lead actors drift across the tarmac, wings folded, waiting their turn to take the stage.
v.
J sits beside me, her head is heavy on my shoulder but I dare not move. She looks like she's dreaming. She looks even younger without her makeup on. She needed this, I thought, asking her to go with me, only I rephrased it in a way where it sounded like a favor. I wonder what kind of journey she's taking, with her heart so heavy, or if she knew that she's stepping into another phase of her womanhood-- she is not a child anymore even if she doesn't look any older than 16.
vi.
I read messages from K. I smile and slip a hand over the journal I brought, fingertips tracing over the page where his pen had touched the paper.
The journey to Las Vegas stretches over the ocean, and transit is the bottle in the waves, carrying a note from far away. "Halfway there," say my text messages. "Ok," say my mother's, the laconic reply to a longwinded wait.
vii.
Airports are emotions compressed: a persistent goodbye, an unbroken reunion, the endless collision of departures and arrivals. Transit is emotion unwound, a dose of time meant to slow the heart and calm the brain. I watch a couple doze on each other's shoulders. I watch J play on her phone, lift her gaze back to me and snuggle cutely, like a child yearning attention. I give in. I see a mother lulling her baby to sleep. Evening dims the sky and light the moon. My reflection slowly appears in the windows, a reminder of the hours, a step closer to my destination.
I write in between. Sometimes after each meal, sometimes when J is sleeping. I write to myself, I write to K-- which feels like writing to myself, most of the time.
viii.
Transit is the comma in the middle of the last sentence. I already know how the story ends: the announcements murmuring over the speakers, the gates opening, the familiar whirr of the plane. The stars blink awake and beckon. I can't tell the difference between the roar of takeoff and the roar of blood in my ears, but I know the sound of leaving -- the punctuation of seatbelts, a period clicking into place.
ix.
13 hours is a long time to wait, so when I reach Las Vegas, see my cousins beaming and my mother in her red jacket and sun visor to cover her sensitive skin-- she doesn't say anything-- because I know she's really saying "I'm happy to see you,". As I write this I think about the way she rubbed my back, held on to my waist for a quick second. My father, unshy, kissing the top of my head. I have landed, but I keep moving.
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