A Vacation

I got off my flight, collected my suitcase and stepped,

Lifting both my baggage and self on to the moving sidewalk human conveyor belt that would bring me to the exit.

As I got on I couldn’t quite see the end as it extended just around the corner at the end of the hallway but I’ve learned to have faith that it would bring me to the right place.


Now the belt slides forward not quite fast enough to create the excitement of a treadmill but just slow enough that if I get caught up in my thoughts for just a second I forget about the movement entirely.

As I walk now, each step feels more difficult than the last as I remember the step before as easier than it was.

It wasn’t particularly so, but I’ve idealized it.

So: easy step, hard step, really hard step, why is walking so fuckin’ hard.


Weirdly enough I miss the plane; the relaxation of it, the ritual of it,

The pressurelessness.

The signs at baggage-claim told me where I’d come from but the only memory I have of home is fuzzy as if it had only happened in a dream.

But, the plane’s gone now and the only way off this conveyor is the exit or... well I suppose hopping over the railing but I’ve never seen anyone come back from that.


So, harder steps and perseverance.

The corner covering the exit doesn’t seem to be much closer and my baggage only gets heavier the further I carry it, but on and on.

I try to find joy in the journey;

Feels like it’d be good to have some when I reach my destination.

I hope it’s hard to say goodbye to my conveyor when the time comes.

I hope I won’t be scared of my vacation.

Keaton Goodman