Airports are a hub of excitement. At all hours of the day, they buzz with the energy of either the anticipation of a new destination or the travel-worn relief of heading back home.
There's always tearful hugs of hellos and goodbyes, a bouquet of roses for the reunited lover, a businessman who cuts ahead in line while pretending to talk to someone important on his Android with the embarrassingly annoying Bluetooth thingy because, really, who has time for manners when you're wearing Brooks Brothers? That's a sign of mid-level douchiness, at the very least. Planes are announced for arrival and departure every two minutes. Someone tries to search for their passport or layer on clothes to make weight for their checked-in luggage, while stressed-induced sweat collects in the armpits of their shirts. A baby's crying over here, a couple's fighting over there, everyone with the same goal: adventure. The unknown. The future is a terminal away.
Yes, by and large airports have a lot to offer. And this morning we - my family and me - were a part of it. We were sending Zoë off on her grand move to Chicago, a move she's been dreaming of since way back when Renée Zellweger was still a thing.
We furiously ran between terminals, shoved extra luggage into bags, and took thirty goodbye photos to commemorate the moment. Our family loves to make a scene. And yes I look super tired and haggard in them all. I could blame it on daylight savings, but I'm simply never good looking before noon. Lay off me. But Zoë looks fabulous for someone who's been living out of a suitcase for two weeks.
True story: I kept it together at the airport, because makeup smears. But when I got home to an empty apartment where my sister has been sleeping since February, I started to panic about not having my sister around to hang out with anymore. To watch Kardashians with. To cry over boys with. To go out on the town with. To just be stupid with and have there be no judgment. And it felt really, really lonely. And then I bawled. I bawled like a bald baby. And as soon as the tears started to flow, my sister called me on the phone from her layover.
I'm going to be ok. I can do this.
Goodbye, Zoë. I miss you already and can't believe that you're not going to just be a Muni ride away anymore. This is way too sad. I'm going to cry into my pint of cider at Blackthorn tonight. Alone. Depressing. Maybe I'll have a whole pitcher.
Good friends are hard to find. Good sisters? Nearly impossible. I got lucky. I feel tempted to say that I hope Chicago is cold and everyone's dumb and fat so that you move back. But I won't.
And now some pics of Zoë's last couple of years here with me in SF: