How do I even start this? I'm not even quite sure. There is so much to say and so many thoughts are racing through my head. I suppose I should take some of Lewis Carroll's advice and "begin at the beginning... and go on till you come at the end: then stop."
The day of departure might've been foreshadowing the rest of my week. It was very stressful and it was by my own accord; I procrastinated. Packing all of my things as well as getting ready by 3 p.m. was no easy task and left my brain in a marsh-like state. When I recall it it was as if my eyes would glaze over most everything because my mind was too busy thinking about what I could be missing from my pack and what if I forget something and I need to fit just one more pair of shoes in and I won't get to say goodbye to some of my friends and I hope there's no traffic on the 405 and I hope the flight goes well and I hope this isn't overweight and oh crap this is definitely overweight and do I really care that this is overweight and do I want to lug two huge bags around and how am I going to travel around Europe and this and that and this and that. It was absolutely exhausting and that's not even half of it, really.
Nonetheless I made my deadline and successfully left my house at 3 p.m.. The freeway was surprisingly wide open and traffic was scarce to say the least. Once we reached LA my dad took us to a small shopping complex to decide on where to eat. I picked Johnny Rockett's as I knew it would be the most American food I could consume before I left the states. There wasn't much talk at the table. Of course some, but mostly reitterations of previously stated warnings of what I should and should not do. Eventually we found that our shakes and burgers and fries had done us in and it was time to leave. I didn't have any marks of sorrow at the time, nor did I feel that pain that comes with the impending severence from one's closest kin. There was a weariness about me, though.
We continued to listen to The Beatles as we made our way towards the airport. Although they remain a signature British group, they always seem to make me feel at home; I mean, I grew up with them. They would play on and on in our sitting room and echo throughout the house. I knew most every song and my whole family would sing along, all harmonizing like we were some sort of traveling family band. "Blackbird" came on as we entered the LAX parking lot and it was as if Paul McCartney was strumming for me on my goodbyes, bidding me to forge ahead and fly.
We entered the terminal, waiting for Hannah and her family to arrive. They eventually did and I ran out to greet them on the street. Their farewells were kindly quick and soon she was left to my own family and me. While waiting to check our bags, we saw some of our study abroad group. There were some shy hello's and some friendly smiles exchanged but nothing much other than that. We eventually got our bags handled, I having one overweight (which I was well aware of beforehand), and could breathe a little easier. To our surprise, however, they did not charge us when we came to the pay stand. My mom told me to shush as I didn't realize that they themselves didn't realize they had overlooked the extra charge. That was one little gift from God.
And then the time finally arrived; the time when I had to finally say goodbye. It wasn't so hard initially. I looked into my parent's faces with a queer sort of smile, that held concern and sorrow, but still leaked a sort of excitement for the future that was nearer still. We held tight to each other in our group hug until we released with the ever-present desperation that comes when every child must leave. They watched me as I went on my way, through the maze of ropes and up the escalator. It was upon that snail-paced machine that I finally felt that true sadness. It was absolutely movie-like, me slowly carried away up the escalator, watching my parents wave goodbye, my dad with a sad sort of smile and my mom blowing kisses with her red eyes made wells about to burst. It was seeing them like that that made me feel. I mean, finally really feel. I would miss them terribly and they would worry about me and I would worry that they would worry too much. It was nothing that I could help, though, so I pushed forward. At the top of the stairs I breathed hard, Hannah comforting me with laughter. We entered the line for security and waited. But, as if the whole ordeal of saying our poignant toodaloo wasn't bad enough, once more did I see my parents before they headed back home. They climbed up the elevator that put them right outside of our roped area. My dad pulled out his phone and beckoned us to smile. Of course, some airport security woman had to burst his bubble and yelled from far across the room with a "Sir!.... Sir!....SIR!" I pointed at my dad, but he didn't seem to think he was the target of ridicule. That made me feel even more vulnerable. But my dad, realizing the situation, strong as he was, only laughed as he tripped backwards behind the "Sterile Area" line. My face warmed, growing tomato red as I could feel everyone looking at my family and me. The moment passed and, for the last time, they said goodbye, waving, exiting through the glass doors and leaving me to my own devices.
It has been almost a week since this happened to me and a lot more has happened in between. I'll tell you, it has been no easy road. It seems doors have been consistently slammed in my face. I'm surprised how I have held up, though. I only shed a few tears and that was only for a brief moment; I have been stronger than I would have believed. Most of the girls in our group cried the first night, knowing home was no stone's throw away. And even those girls had the means of communicating with their families whereas I could not. But, that's a story for another day. Class is coming soon so I have to cut short here. I would say it's a good place to stop, Carroll, even though it is not the end.
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