It's the smells of home that get me. Gramma's house has had an aroma of laundry sheets with a hint of coffee and heat for as long as I can remember. My brother has smelled like mountain spring laundry detergent since he married his wife six years ago. The bathroom in my grandparent's bedroom smells of Gramma's lotion, just like it did when I was too young to take a bath in her gray-tiled, stand-up shower. Through decades of my life, these smells have defined my familiar.
I just said good-bye to those smells and traded them for the carpet and glue, air-conditioned atmosphere of the airport. I didn't want to cry. But then my mom hugged me on the concrete curb beneath the US Airways departure sign, and I heard her voice catch as she said, "I love you babe." I blinked a lot, and her eyes were watery as she pulled away and walked back to the driver's side of the truck. I looked in through the passenger window and signed 'I love you' to my Grampa in the front seat. And then they were pulling away, and I avoided everyone's eyes until I met those of the female security agent.
"Are you traveling by yourself?" she asked.
"Yes," I answered. "It's just me."
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