The last (and by “last” I mean NEVER AGAIN) time I saw Minnesota was a 2-week visit during the blizzard of Xmas 1996. Airsick and hung-over, I arrived home to a SeaTac airport crowded with holiday travelers, grabbed my bag from the carousel, and headed for the exit. Was I hallucinating? I did a double-take—“Amy?” There was my sister, walking quickly, in the opposite direction. Unbeknownst to each other, we had arrived at the same time. She had spent the holidays with our dad’s family in Spokane, and was going to stay with friends in Seattle for a few days before returning to her job in Japan. My sister and I have never been close and were unaware of each other’s plans travel plans that winter. I couldn’t wait to get home to my cozy apartment downtown, and since she was headed that way, I suggested we share a taxi. Good thing I had grabbed an airsick bag from the plane because I threw up during the drive, and, surprisingly, my sister rubbed my back and held my long hair away from my face. It was actually kind of nice—the whole experience a completely unexpected coincidence. Minnesota is no longer home for anyone in my immediate family, but the airport experience showed me the four of us are still linked by invisible threads and still watching out for each other, wherever we may be. Home is where our loved ones land. Home is wherever we share a heart-felt-connection, even if that occurs 2,000 miles from where we live now, or where we were born.
Posted on: Sat, 19 Apr 2014 20:33:29 +0000
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