The Landing

Suitcase in hand, you head to the station. No one important knows you’re here. At least, no one conventionally important. You spoke to the mailman this morning as you locked your front door, and made sure he'd look after the neighbour’s cat whenever he could. You then entered the warm and bubbling coffee shop down the street and told the owner your news. Your last pit stop was the library, where you unloaded many of your books to donate, only to be gifted many more in return. And now your suitcase is heavier than before, lending palpable weight to the journey ahead. Everyone- the mailman, the baristas, the librarians- wished you well. Your family- parents, sister, neighbour- stay silent in their ignorance. 

Through no fault of their own, of course. Sure they were nice people, but they tended to only see matters of importance through the lens of numerical value. And that is all fine and well, but you are tired of calculating the cost versus benefit of smiling at a stranger or buying that new book. 

So here you are, walking on the side of the highway to the next town’s train station, lugging a book-heavy suitcase and thinking about the road ahead in feelings instead of numbers. The crunch of gravel under your feet feels exciting. The honking of passersby feels nerve wracking. Usually you’d weigh these against each other, but you’ve come to realize that things aren’t inherently good or bad. They just are. And if you break them down far enough there’s plenty of good and bad within them and you simply have to take your pick. 

You choose to pick the gravel-crunching walk, your muscles moving, the cool breeze blowing, and the tall grass swaying alongside the long and winding road. You also pick the fact that this journey is the first section of a much longer one, and the fact that your destination lies at the end. Yes, this is a good thing. 

The decision to go was made last night, on a whim. You weren’t sure yet exactly where you were going, just that you needed to. Getting out was necessary. Out of your nice, overbearing house and manicured, overbearing lawn and calculated, overbearing family. So you got out your suitcase, almost without thinking. But of course you were thinking, with your heart, which is much smarter than your brain anyways. 

Packing was made much easier when you realized where you were going to land. After some hasty research you found a hotel in a city two provinces over aptly named The Landing. The promise of free toiletries freed up a lot of space. You thought you’d be packing light, but the new books prove otherwise as you walk along the road, and pulling your suitcase behind you takes effort. 

The hotel is hiring, and still several miles away. 

You walk down the exit and into the city. If you hadn’t been so set on this hotel, you’d be tempted to stay. Greenery everywhere, and full of charming personality. You have to remind yourself that your city, your former city, was just like it. Different flavour, of course, but it was the same dish. And far too close to where you used to live. You steer your course firmly toward the train station. 

When you get inside and finally sit down, tiny pings of muscle fatigue start up around your hips and thighs. You have been walking for so long and your determination did not allow for many breaks. Zipping your water bottle out of your bag, you begin breaking down this step in your journey. Water, good. So good you start drinking and let your body take over, drinking until you simply have to breathe. Bustling people, all going somewhere, and waiting in a hurry? Depends. You choose good, until proven otherwise. You sink back into your seat for a minute and breathe. 

Then you force yourself to standing, and walk over to the ticket office. 

“How may I help you today?” The person standing behind the desk was fighting very hard to keep their pleasantly neutral face, and losing to a very wide grin. 

“One ticket for the 4 o’clock eastbound, please.” You squint thoughtfully at the wide grin. “And why are you so happy? I’m not being sarcastic, I really want to know.”

They laugh a little as they print your ticket. Then they hand it with the explanation to you. A sticky note, with writing in a spiky hand, and accompanied by several doodles, saying May the Fourth be with you. 

“I only noticed it on my thermos just as you walked up.”

“Can I take a picture of it?”

“Yep.”

You feel something flit across your face as the twenty-odd notifications appear on your phone screen, but you focus on taking the picture before worrying about any of them. 

“Thanks.”

Once in your seat again, you take a deeper breath than you’ve taken since leaving. Which doesn’t quite make sense. After all, you’re not running away from anything. You’re running towards something. That should be different. There’s no festering fingers of badness reaching from your past to constrict your lungs. Breathing should be easy. 

Now you take out your phone again and pay attention to the notifications, most from your family, some from brunch friends. Damn. You forgot to cancel. That was the one loose end you forgot to tie up. Now everyone’s worrying. 

You pocket your phone. You’ll deal with that on the train. Hopefully things won’t escalate too much by then.

Then something catches your eye. 

A dandelion, just outside the window, pushing up through the concrete walkway you’d passed when coming into the station. 

You sit up a little straighter and look at it, really look at it. 

Maybe it’s a metaphor.

Something so delicate looking, with such little petals and curly leaves and a cheerful expression, broke free of the concrete when it was still growing. 

You’re still growing. 

And you’re going to break free, soon, ever so soon. 

And you’re going to land on your feet.