florida sandals

Squee-flop. Squee-flop. I take a deep breath. Squee-flop. Squee-flop. My eyes are closed but I know that sound anywhere. Squee-flop. And then, I can discern the trickling that is wheels rushing over tiles. Thud. Thud. Wherever grout comes together, rivers in the sterile plain. Squee-flop. Squee-flop. They must have been running - that’s the only reason to have sweaty feet in this climate-controlled, 72 degrees all-year-around area. Though the outside weather doesn’t change that much either - they say we have two seasons: summer and Christmas. Squee-flop. Squee-flop. Closer. Closer. I open my eyes. She’s beautiful. Wearing a sun-dress that we must have gotten at Bellas, because it screams Florida, a uniformity of brown, sun-darkened skin that told of her more Northern and sun-scarce roots, and black plas-leather sandals that made the sound I would know anywhere, she was coming right towards me.

I guess I should smile or say something. Something clever. I mean, I am my state’s last representative that she will see on our soil. I should say something, right? But I can’t. I didn’t. And she walked right on past; and I don’t blame her at all. Squee-flop. Squee-flop. It was starting to fade into the distance. I would miss that sound of sweaty skin peeling away from the foam and plastic of distinctively Florida sandals. Oddly cognizant, I heard my zone is being called. From the years of practice and repetition, I stood up, turned into an Automaton, got into line, and let my identity fade away. That’s what I love about airports and transit. There’s no present. There’s no identity, no responsibility for what occurs right now, in that very moment. In an airport, we stretch always for the future, knowing where we have come from, but never knowing who or where we really are, just stuck in the middle of something.

Did I enjoy my time in Florida? Yes, thank you. We all live with lies. I left this place, changed, and when I came back, it had gone all different on me. It was as if a puzzle I had been working on for years, with the image starting to come into being, was flipped, and now, only brown cardboard was staring at me - all familiar shapes, but no familiar faces.

Fire. In my lungs. What stage was this? Bargaining? Denial? Acceptance? Damn this seven step ladder. That must be anger. And knowing that defuses and guts all meaning from it. I didn’t want the knowledge of how I am supposed to react. Things die when you pin them down - look at his butterfly collection. Why did he even keep that? And the coin one? Mom doesn’t even like bugs. Maybe that’s why I took it. Or maybe, I took because that’s all of him I have left - memories pinned down, stuck forever in the same position of beautiful horror.

Closure. I can’t have closure, because I can’t have grief. And I can’t have grief, because I don’t want fucking closure. I want my Father back. I want his hands to move across his collection or his train, wearing those stupid reading glasses. I small smile creeps up on my face. They made his nose look even larger than it was. I want his wisdom, his advice. I want all those things that everyone always wants from their fathers. But I want it from mine. And I will never have it. 19 A: a small, cramped seat, looking out the world at a world I would never understand. But right now, with this lady and her 13-month-old daughter, both who know nothing about me, seat 19 A seems a little like home. Or the closest thing I am ever going to get to it. Lights are down for take-off. I take a deep breath.





This is just something I wrote. My dad is still alive, don't worry.