What makes home, a home?
The airport is buzzing with people, eagerly, hurriedly finding their way home.
Parents with young kids have relieved looks on their faces. Children calling their parents saying they have arrived.
A “Welcome to Indonesia” sign printed above our heads as we were disembarked from the aircraft. The hot, humid air slapping our faces, as if snapping us back to reality.
And I’m going home, too. One of my many homes.
Do you know that the airport has witnessed more sincere kisses than the altar? Someone wrote this somewhere, and even when no one will know for sure of its validity, I understand why the writer said that. The airport is a place for separation and reunion. It’s witnessed him sending her off without knowing when he’ll hold her in his arms again. It’s witnessed her waiting in anticipation upon the sight of him after six cruel months.
My trip to the airport, it seems, has always been one or the other extreme. The wonderful, ecstatic feeling that can only be described as full happiness upon meeting him. And the melancholic, heartbreaking one upon needing to let him go.
December will come soon, I tell myself. They were your lines before we said our goodbyes. We’ll make it work. We’ll find a solution.
I’m home. But my heart is longing for my other one. The place where it has you.
You’re not here. You’re there. And there doesn’t know how lucky it is to have you.
It feels as if it were a dream. I was just here last Saturday to find my way there. And now, I’m here again, trying to accept that time goes on, and I have to face tomorrow without your hug.
I’m home. My bed. Familiar childhood smell of my room. Pictures of loved ones decorating my desks. But all I want is to be where yours is.