Perspective

The contents of his suitcase, the whispered phone conversation, the shouts of a mother, the giggles of friends: Hints of lives much deeper than I see. Only the surface; somewhere infinitely deep. 

Her strawberry blonde hair was neatly braided down her back. She wore a yellow cardigan and a white shirt, fabric stretching over her rounded stomach. She already had two children, dark-haired and close in age, circling around her and speaking in high-pitched French. She spoke to them calmly while staring, distracted, into space. Her face was less tired than it seemed it should be. The smooth white skin of youth made her look almost angelic, virginal if not for the baby inside.

When I looked at the man—the boy—somewhere in between—I thought of old movies or advertisements for expensive cologne. His pudgy, child’s face was partly hidden behind an old man’s grey hat placed crooked on his head. His shoes were black and pointed and his suit matched the hat—grey and knit and oddly unexpected.

Two young girls sat close together. They were both dressed in sweatpants and jackets and had the wily presence of those set out on their own for the first time. They carried similar bags—black cloth with leather handles—and both held their phones, new-age security blankets, as they spoke in low voices to each other and giggled over a French phrase book one of them held. 

As the plane took off I watched the airport, the city, the country, shrink. Each block, each house, each room, each soul inside told a different story, saw a different life. Each legacy holds weight to one or few or many and yet, here I sat, and watched it disappear.