Departure

“You’ve got to line up there.” 

The airport attendant pointed at a flock of people waiting to check in. We were the late bunch, the timid rebels who didn’t arrive at the airport by the suggested time. I eyeballed the situation anxiously, calculating the quickest way to check in. The line for the super elite flyer was the shortest except I wasn’t one. Desperate, I pointed at my baby and begged the attendant for an exception. She asked if my baby was a super elite flyer. I answered no, as if she didn’t already know. She smiled and walked away. Feeling stupid, I turned around to search for my dad. What a terrible daughter, leaving an old man lost among strangers and suitcases while I tried to jump the line. But there he was, capable as ever, holding a spot in line for us in case we needed it. I rushed to him, relieved, and then he took over the stroller to free my hands. I watched his knuckles turn white and his wrinkles smooth out. An intricate map of veins on the backs of his hands came into focus as he wrapped his palms around the handles and squeezed.

Thirty years ago, it was that same hand that gripped mine, as we watched my mom dash between lines, bearing annoyed looks from travellers while she tried to get us in on the slightly shorter one. His hands were veiny too, back then, even as a young man. Dad held my hand tightly, steadfast, as if he was afraid I’d slip away. I followed along obediently, my small hand locked in his. It was then when he told me: be good to mom, and that he wasn’t coming with us. At that tender age, I quietly accepted without protest. Hand in hand, we inched forward in line. 

And here we were, thirty years later, inching forward again. We had nothing to say to each other. We were well practiced in parting ways by now. Since that first time, I’ve arrived and departed from the same airport many times, visiting my dad jubilantly at first, until the visits stopped all together. When it was finally our turn at the counter, I handed the attendant our passports, the luggage, and we were finally checked in. We were the last ones. Dad pushed the stroller beside me as we both walked towards the departure gate. I hesitated for a moment, thinking that we needed a proper goodbye.

When I looked over at dad, he gestured to keep going. Maybe he saw how panicky I was moments ago, or maybe it was out of habit. I blamed myself for hurrying like mom. She wasn’t even here, what was I doing? I should’ve been calm, like dad. I’ve always been good at that, mirroring the parent I was with or tightroping a skillful middle if they were both present.

But I was an obedient child who didn’t have my dad’s permission to stay. My mind was ambivalent when our bodies arrived at the yellow line just before the gate. Dad kept going until the guard stopped him. But he didn’t let go right away. In that latent moment, he kept a tight grip while his gaze turned forlorn and stretched into the past. I lingered with regret and questioned my thirty years of obedience all at once. This was the divide, the fracture in time that brought us back to that moment. What if I’d asked: Dad, can you come with us?

And then dad let go. He took a few steps back and waved. I followed and pushed the stroller through the departure gate, and then looked back a few more times. Dad stood there, waiting, until he was certain we were no longer breathing the same air. And then he slowly walked away, heading back to where he belonged. On the opposite side of the gate, I did the same, heading back to where I belonged. Maybe we were saving a proper goodbye for the next departure. I pushed the stroller along, looking down at the tiny drops of tears on the backs of my own veiny hands. It was the only relief I could muster.