Ah, airports.

Systematic. Sterile. Predictable.

Numbers and letters and cities scroll in coded combinations.

The clacking of suitcase wheels against the cold tile. The paging of anonymous passengers.

The news of the day hums in the background on a TV no one is watching. And Starbucks is always two gates away.

Glancing at a crumbled paper ticket. Shuffling from one terminal to the next. Best-selling paperbacks and every imaginable flavor of chewing gum await.

A portal of unending motion. Coming. Going. Waiting.

Nobody stays. We’re all just passing through.

And no arrival exists without a departure. But it’s the arriving I prefer.