Flying to a New City
William L. Alton
Everything has been taken. The curtains are folded into boxes on the living room floor. The chairs and the tables are in storage and the bed is waiting in the truck for the short drive to the shed. I am leaving this place. I’m going to stand here for a minute remembering how my ex helped me carry things up the stairs, how I stood on the balcony every morning with a cigarette and a cup of coffee. This has been my home for a couple of months, but now I’m leaving it.
I’m leaving my sons in the stone buildings of the universities. My ex is still in the house we shared. She is happier now, I guess. I don’t know. I still miss her. I miss the slope of her shoulder, the pale spread of her hair.
I’m looking from the balcony for the last time. I smoke a cigarette and stand barefoot here while the rain drops onto the rooftop, while fog rises from the parking lot. A young man walks by on the sidewalk. A woman on a bike pedals past. I am full of fear. I’m moving into something new.
The pills from my nightstand wait in a basket in the moving truck. No nap today. I have too much to do. Tomorrow I will catch a plane and fly for hours, sleeping in the uncomfortable seat, my back bent, my legs going numb and hard. I’ll drink a beer and hope it brings me peace. Next to me, someone will fold her feet under the seat. She will tilt her head to the window and catch the clouds there.
This is how things work out. This is the end of one life. When the plane lands I will stand in the terminal and look around at the people waiting, at the people eating and waiting, the families come together again after a short separation. No one will meet me there. I’ll stand at the baggage claim and heft my boxes and cases onto a dolly. I’ll take a cab through this new city to my new home and I will unpack myself. I’ll light a cigarette in the night, watch the fire burn just like it burned back home. There is so much new here, but some things never change. Some things are immutable: a cigarette’s heat; dusk’s gray light; people staring at me until I turn away, hoping they’ll move on.
I’m leaving my sons in the stone buildings of the universities. My ex is still in the house we shared. She is happier now, I guess. I don’t know. I still miss her. I miss the slope of her shoulder, the pale spread of her hair.
I’m looking from the balcony for the last time. I smoke a cigarette and stand barefoot here while the rain drops onto the rooftop, while fog rises from the parking lot. A young man walks by on the sidewalk. A woman on a bike pedals past. I am full of fear. I’m moving into something new.
The pills from my nightstand wait in a basket in the moving truck. No nap today. I have too much to do. Tomorrow I will catch a plane and fly for hours, sleeping in the uncomfortable seat, my back bent, my legs going numb and hard. I’ll drink a beer and hope it brings me peace. Next to me, someone will fold her feet under the seat. She will tilt her head to the window and catch the clouds there.
This is how things work out. This is the end of one life. When the plane lands I will stand in the terminal and look around at the people waiting, at the people eating and waiting, the families come together again after a short separation. No one will meet me there. I’ll stand at the baggage claim and heft my boxes and cases onto a dolly. I’ll take a cab through this new city to my new home and I will unpack myself. I’ll light a cigarette in the night, watch the fire burn just like it burned back home. There is so much new here, but some things never change. Some things are immutable: a cigarette’s heat; dusk’s gray light; people staring at me until I turn away, hoping they’ll move on.
