I made my way to the airplane, stoic and brave. I resisted my Orphean impulse to look back.
My luggage was carted off with rough hands. Jostled and manhandled; I do not like to think of her journey: conveyed on black belts, through the very heart of the turbulent airport, to the hold of the small plane which carried us from New York to Washington DC. But she is no amateur, she has done this before; She can handle herself.
I tell myself.
I felt some small measure of comfort, there above the clouds, that beneath me, in the belly of this miraculous engine, she sat, biding her time. Our reunion was assured, and so I waited patiently. Below, I imagine that she, too, held her peace, secure in the knowledge that our journey, though long, would be taken together.
Perhaps this is only fantasy, to ease my impotent guilt; perhaps in the hold below, in the darkness and the cold, she felt the impending crisis. Did she cry out to me, my faithful bag? Did she try to warn me, as I sat above, in sunlight, reassuring myself that all was well? I pray that it was not so.
At Dulles Airport, the layover was so quick that there was no time for worry on the mad rush to make my connection. In my haste, I spared barely a thought for my mistreated suitcase. And as I ran the one way, she was dragged another.
Pulled roughly from the plane and thrown unceremoniously into a curtained cart for transport, she must have known it then, looking around her at all of the other bags. I can only imagine her horror as, in the dimly filtered light, she made out their destination tags: Denver, CO, one and all.
Did a malignant breeze, then, drift by and lift that dreaded curtain? Did she look out towards the fading terminal to see me, breath uneven, legs pumping, running away from her? Did she think I purposely abandoned her? Oh god…did I?
The flight to Beijing was restless. I know now why. At the time I thought it was only the usual coach experience: the sleeping seatmate using your shoulder as a pillow as you yawn and shrug to “accidentally” dislodge them without offense; the noodle meal when you SPECIFICALLY asked for the sandwich; the 3 inch wide screen, giving you a choice of watching the impossibly slow progress of the aircraft, or endlessly streaming pre-teen musicals.
But it was none of those things, I now conclude. Somewhere, in my heart of hearts, in my very soul, I knew that something was missing.
In the terminal at Beijing, I clear customs and immigration expeditiously. I climb aboard the shuttle train that will take me to the baggage claim. 41, the number of the carrousel bearing my flight’s luggage, repeats over and over in my head like a mantra, as I try to still my worried heart.
As I stand and watch, bags are spewed out and retrieved all around me. I am a still life painting surrounded by a waterfall of activity, a solitary figure haunting carrousel 41, until at last there are no bags left.
Mechanically, I inform the lost and found of my predicament; I fill out the requisite forms like a zombie. The bottom has dropped out of the world.
I don’t remember the cab ride home, only the all encompassing absence in my heart, so cavernous that even the comforting weight of the carry-on bag in my lap could not fill it.
The next day is a blur, I drift in and out of consciousness like a fever patient, and all my dreams are of her.
I imagine I see her, sitting lonely on a carrousel in Denver as I fly through the air, oblivious. I imagine her outrage and shame as she is hoisted away by strangers, again, jamming her wheels in protest. Did she wish to wait for me there? Did she think that I would come for her? Was her faith in me that complete?
At midnight the following day, I am awoken by a knock at the door. I stumble from the couch, blind in the darkness, ramming toes and knees in my haste. I pull open the door and as my eyes adapt to the hallway light, she slowly comes into focus, my fidelitous companion, my faithful carrier, my poor lost luggage.
And still, she has a smile for me.
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