I was sitting in this airport a year and a week ago. I had just auditioned for the school that I almost went to and it was snowing. I remember watching the snow blow across the concrete of the airport, rivers and streams of hypnotic movement.
I was sitting in this airport a year minus a month ago. It was snowing, again, and the snow was blowing. I had just auditioned at the school I currently go to; it was quite possibly the worst audition I did last year.
I was sitting in this airport a year and a half ago. I was coming back from a music camp, and there were storms all up and down the east coast. My flight was delayed; I waited all afternoon, and got home after midnight.
I know this airport. I know where the bagel stand is, where the newsstands are, at which gates you can find wifi. I know the trek between the two gates, the endless-seeming tunnel of steel and dead, mechanical voices. I know that you can never expect your plane to be on time. I've run from a flight that was delayed coming in to my connection that would be leaving in twenty minutes, expecting to miss it, only to find that that flight was delayed for the next three hours. I've had gate agents ask me if I'm carrying a violin, a viola, a guitar. I've waited with family and friends, I've waited alone.
It was the best of airports, it was the worst of airports.
I'm going home.
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