We had been alone in the fields, outside the lot, watching the planes take off. An accidental group with toes on the pavement, hot from the sun; watching life move as we stood still.
“Let’s form a village!” we turned and said to each other; to no one really. And we clung to the idea. We let it dig itself into our chests. We lay on our backs and declared, “We’ll call ourselves Airportlandia!” Arms wrapped around waists and hairs twisting over hairs.
We built shelters and latrines outside of gate 53, by the fence, where the runway curves. And watched and waited. As if something magical would happen. Just any day now. “Something great,” we’d whisper at night to the dark. Excited by the proximity of people that could fly.
And then one day, after four days, you woke up and said, “This is wrong” and everyone nodded and got up to leave.
“Wait!” I said, “But we’re family. We’re a village. You can be mayor, and I’ll bake the bread!” But you had already left me alone in my bed. Where I remained, to smooth over the dents in the grass where our village had lain.
I was still there two days later. I stayed two more days, watching the skies, watching the ground press under my toes. Wanting to reflect. As a reflex. About what to do now. About who to love now. And what to do with empty beds and too much bread.
| COPYRIGHT 2006-2011
Portland Fiction Project
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED