Reflection of a Traveler

        I’m sitting at a table, plastic chair beneath my thighs, a crepe sitting next to me, steaming. Everywhere I look, there is movement, movement in the men in suits pulling luggage, movement in the flies lazily circling food, movement in the keyboard flexing under the weight of these words. I’m sitting at a halfway point, somewhere between where I am and where I want to go. A crossroads of sorts, where I can almost taste the journey lying ahead of me. I may be off to Atlanta, or Boston, or New York City. I may be off to the moon, or to college, or to a new job. Or maybe I’m just going home. Wherever the journey takes me, I will be a changed person.

        The bustle of movement sweeps me up, seizes me in its grasp, makes me feel lighter. The landscape around me flashes, changing every second, as mothers scramble off with wobbly children, as fathers hurry downstairs to grab a snack. Watching others taking off on their vacations makes me feel like I’m taking the trip with them. It is like Christmas morning and I am about to open the boxes lined up under the tree, filled with knitted sweaters, with chocolate, with soaps and phone cases and love.

The man beside me, getting his shoe shined, is like a box, and it is up to me to open it. He has come here to catch a train to Chicago, where he will plan to ask his high school girlfriend to marry him. The child across the food court is crying as she sees her father walk off into the distance, headed to his third tour in the Army. A group of Chinese students file in, chatting. They are excited to be in America, the land of dreams, the beacon of hope and change and new beginnings.  The girl sitting in my chair is typing, her words blurring as tears run down her face. These are the tears of a traveler, of hellos and goodbyes, of ending a chapter and starting a new one, of moving away from family and friends and safety and security and pushing yourself out into the world, as helpless as a newborn baby.

       The journey to come is long and arduous, and I may never even leave this room. I may let myself stay forever in this position, my arms hovering over a keyboard, tears frozen on my face. For years to come, people may walk by, their hair graying with age, and I will still be at this table, my life frozen at fifteen. But in favor of development, of outgrowing insecurities and expanding my horizons, I will move, wipe away my tears; I will throw away my empty plate, a memento from the past. I will breathe, love, cry, hurt, throw a vase in anger, hug an old friend, and tell my mom that I love her. I am a traveler and I’ve reached a crossroad. From here, the only certain thing is that I will not stand still.