Black pleather sucks to my legs, still warm from its previous inhabitant, canned music adding melody to the rumble of departing jets and chittering voices. Damp air conveys the musk of travelers with too many hours crushed in seats between each other and perfumed attempts to mask the scent.
With a screeching lurch, the carousel begins to snake, bags disgorging through the rubber flaps following its current, round and round through islands of waiting people. Soft side, hard side, stuffed like a thanksgiving turkey, zippers clinging for dear life, retrieved and stacked, rolling out into tropical humidity. One last breath of air conditioned joy, I follow them into the oven.
Asphalt and palms against the bright blue sky, race passed the window, bleeding into shops with neon signs and meandering civilization. A salty tinge floats on the nonexistent breeze, tickling noses turned toward palm tree's salute to the sun.
Arriving in at the hotel, my bags sink into the blue, green, maroon paisley bed spread, wheezing antiseptic fumes of cleanliness from between the sheets. Sighing, I begin disbursing their contents into my make shift home for the week.
Peaking from between the folds of clothes, little yellow sticky notes beg for attention...
I love the way you love our family.
You are such a good daddy. We miss you already.
You are an amazing man and husband.
Carrying the weight of their words to the bathroom, they find their place on the mirror I will look into each morning, and smile. Some true, some challenging. Already the air has changed, the words invoking a breath of freshness.
Our words have the ability to breathe new life, or suck the air out of already tired lungs. All in how we choose to use them.
Especially when we speak to ourselves.