Gate 17A

The sun has barely begun to peak out over the skyline, but it’s already strong. It glares through the glass like headlights in the rain. Before long, it will spill across the floor, across the chairs, and turn my cheeks pink. The chill of the arid night will disappear. The world will wake up again.

But not yet.

It’s still quiet outside. Motionless. Even within the walls of the terminal, travellers mill about without fuss. They’re still waking up too. Not even the stressful trip through security is enough to shake the exhaustion of getting dropped off before dawn. Bags in hand. Boarding pass ready.

A few gates over, a line of people has started to form, preparing to board. The text on their screen is big and bright. Kansas City.

The screen at Gate 17A is bright too. Nine minutes to boarding time. A graphic of a plane colored in white cycles through. It will be a full flight.

A shuttle cruises across the tarmac. It’s probably full, no matter how early. If the airport were windowless, it would often be impossible to tell what time it was. Only the final arriving flights of the night would ever see it close to empty.

A man walks by, briefcase in hand. He’s on the phone, babbling away with whoever’s on the other side.

Flight attendants have started to appear at the gate, all perfectly presentable in their pressed blue uniforms. The carpet muffles the clack of their ruby heels.

“We will now begin boarding with Group 1,” a gate agent says. The voice is muffled, yet it still manages to echo across the terminal, another piece in a mosaic of noises.

The window is dirty, its smudges and dirt exposed by the orange sparkle of the sun. A small child, standing on a seat nearby, presses his nose up against the glass. He giggles, as if he knows he’s making it worse.

Someone’s shoes scrape against the tile as they come running to a gate where an attendant has just made the final boarding announcement. Her plane is waiting patiently, only narrowly having avoided taking off without her.

At the same time, another plane is rolling out onto the tarmac. Its paint—blue, yellow, and red—shimmers in the sunlight, and the reflection almost seems to turn the blacktop white.

Its soft whir is like a lullaby as a man in a yellow vest waves it on with his neon baton. It’s odd to see from the outside. The giant metal tube filled with people, about to take to the sky. It looks much smaller than it feels, its own little world separate from the demands of everyday life.

How many places it can take you. Home, old or new. A work trip. Off to university. To somewhere so familiar you could trace it with your eyes closed or to somewhere you’ve yet to know. 

Suitcases continue to roll by as activity picks up around Gate 17A. Boarding will begin in three minutes now. But somehow, nothing about it feels urgent. I am more captivated by the departure of strangers than I am by my own.

Wings wobbling, the plane on the tarmac pulls up to the end of the runway and pauses. It’s only for a split second, but time slows as it pulls back and then shoots forward, picking up speed with each sliver of ground gained.

The engines whine as they propel the aircraft forward. The passengers will be leaning back in their seats, seatbelts fastened and pressure building in their heads. Their ears will start to pop soon, not even staved off by a quiet yawn or a piece of spearmint chewing gum. 

The wheels lift, and it rockets into the air, soon to become a distant star above the clouds. It’s a strange thing, seeing others disappear like that. To me, they’re gone forever, but soon, they will bounce as their wheels hit another runway, and they’ll slow to a stop. And they’ll continue on as they did before. It will be as if their feet never left the ground.

“We will now begin boarding flight 3727 to St. Louis,” says a gate agent.

It’s my turn now.