My last goodbyes flow out of me like a disappointed sea, breaking and offshoring between the rows of my teeth, shaking my lips. As I see my parents’ faces, I am reminded once again of what must be done. Packing my life into three suitcases, I head off to college once again, with a quiet hope that this semester will be far better than the last. I have opened and closed them many times, recounting each item, wishing I could pack my room inside the walls of the suitcases. Wishing I could take the crayon markings on my walls, the stickers of all the things I have ever loved and my family with me. However, as I hug my sister for the last time in months, like the last drops of water when a drought begins, I begin to realize the cost of my dreams.
On the way to the airport I look at my surroundings: the trees that have seen me grow up, the streets that have kissed my knees. There is such an ironic beauty in leaving the place you call home, outgrowing the life you once lived. Time sits still inside a car when the palm trees are passing rapidly, when people fly by and when planes take on a static position in the sky, but it is even more slow when one is about to leave. The distant roar of planes, like beasts, fills the silence of the TSA line, built on the fear of revealing the tears yearning to flow out of everyone's eyes.
As I walk the guided rows surrounded by black belts, I find myself in a line of people. I see families get separated, being a first-hand witness to the biggest consequence of ambition: mourning the life one is leaving behind. There is a bittersweet feeling entailed in accomplishing one's dreams because when the excitement fades, the reality seeps in. Sometimes confused by the scent of nerves, the scent of realization is revealed when one's feet touch the airport ground. As the tears are wiped away, the scent of loved ones is still embedded within one's clothes, accompanied by the faint smell of salt from the island air.
One of my friends once told me a story about this melancholy feeling: the one where Lot’s wife turned into a pillar of salt. The story detailed how, while fleeing Sodom, she encountered a strict rule from an angel: not to look back. However, as a way of mourning the life she was leaving behind, she stood and turned her head. In response, she was turned into a pillar of salt and stood on the escarpment of the Mount Sedom diapir.
I stare at the floor, fearful of revealing that I am grieving without even having left. Distracted, almost instinctively, I contemplate looking back. As my head turns, my feet begin to solidify to the ground. I can feel as I turn into a pillar of salt, my veins pouring into sand. As each grain hits the bottom, it counts down the time I have left home.
I begin to wonder how the refugees from Sodom knew that she was turning her head, what gave her away or if they turned their heads too, because they felt the price of the life they were leaving behind. I look around me at the different faces of those who are leaving to pursue their ambitions and debilitating truth. I have a great feeling that in this moment, we all feel the same thing.
I seek compassion in their eyes, but I hope for understanding. We are facing the question of leaving or not leaving with our lives packed in suitcases, without knowing the result of our ambition, the one that could remain parked, stationary and amount to nothing. We are wondering about things one would only wonder about when there is nothing else to think about, the rumors of the pain of leaving and the claims that the wounds of missing home get better with time.
All of a sudden, I see within the crowd a familiar face, eyes filled with shimmer: myself. I stare back at the reflection. Perhaps the life I am leaving behind is far more important than the one I am chasing. With this comprehension, I feel the immensity of my sacrifice.
Somehow, even though I had looked back, I was not transformed into a pillar of salt. The salt was only falling on my lips, interlaced with my tears, a small reminder of my ambition, like an indication that I will leave home, hoping the life I am leaving is worth the life of whom I want to become. However, the salt also reaches my chest, making my heart beat a bit faster as I hand in my ID to the TSA officer. It reminds me of the excitement of what is happening. The excitement that overthrows the mourning of the life I am leaving behind: the feeling that my dreams are coming true.
Johnalys Ferrer is a sophomore from Arecibo, Puerto Rico, studying Molecular and Cellular Biology.
