My plane lifts off from the tiny airport in Columbus, Mississippi. My excitement is building. In an hour I land in Atlanta, navigate the world’s busiest airport full of the world’s rudest people, and I am not disturbed or distressed.
The smile on my face is genuine, the song in my heart builds, the tightness in my chest loosens. Starbucks cup in hand, I head toward my departure gate. I’m jarred — a fellow traveler with his head down, focused on his phone, bumps into me, causing my coffee to spill. I’m not perturbed. My smile widens. I’m leaving these people behind. I’m going home.
The flight is uneventful until the bumps rouse me — rough air as we descend through the heat dome. The smile takes over my entire face. Minutes later I’m navigating toward baggage claim, stealing looks out the massive windows, laughing out loud when I see palm trees and saguaros framed by the distant mountains. I pass smiling people, feeling their presence, welcoming it.
At the baggage carousel I watch as complete strangers help a young woman take bags off the belt. I step up and grab a suitcase for an older couple. This is community. This is acceptance. This is what home feels like.
I walk toward the exit, completely lost to myself. I’m a solo traveler but far from alone. Here I am part of. I am with friends I haven’t met yet. I belong.
I step outside and exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. The air is hot but light, the sky sapphire blue and wide open, the sun a vibrant orange. The temperature is a dry 110 degrees and feels like my grandmother just wrapped me in a hand-stitched blanket.
This is family. This is forever. This is Phoenix.
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