Sky Harbor

Phoenix Sky Harbor International Airport is a large airport located just three miles east of the central business district in the city of Phoenix, Maricopa County, Arizona. It is under the vast blue sky that looms like a crystal clear sea above the desert landscape, filled with endless sand and dry air and cacti. It was purchased over six decades ago by the city of Phoenix, in 1935, as a joint civil-military airport. At the time of its purchase, it was serviced by four airline companies and had one runway. Presently, the airport is served by 24 major airlines and 3 commuter airlines, providing nonstop flights to 89 cities in the United States and 17 cities in Canada, Mexico, and Europe. There are 3 terminal buildings: Terminal 2, Terminal 3, and Terminal 4—the largest, with more than 90 gates. On any given day, more than 1,200 aircraft arrive and depart, more than 100,000 passengers arrive and depart, and more than 600 tons of air cargo is handled.

I remember countless summers departing from that airport for rainy Seattle, Washington, where I would stay with my father for one entire month before school began come August. I would say my goodbye to the dry heat and the sand and endless, robin egg blue sky, and be welcomed with milder weather and tall buildings and my father and his wife and son just two years younger than I am. Sky Harbor had been a sort of refuge for me, something that had given me comfort as it welcomed me back to Phoenix, back to Arizona, and the blistering sun and the God-awful heat I love so much after my long stay in the northwestern state. It was a ‘Welcome back!’ sign to home. To the people I loved, who loved me back, the places I adored, and the weather I just couldn’t get enough of. Sky Harbor had been a landmark that had driven all my worries away; that had calmed my nerves, and made me feel so much at ease.

But that was when I had called Arizona my home. That had been when I had still been a young girl, a girl who still lived with her mother and was still a student at Saguaro High School. A different Gwen. Sky Harbor no longer brings me that feeling of comfort. It no longer gives me a sense of that “Home, sweet home” sort of relief it used to. Now, it only brings me painful memories of what had been, of when I was happier, of when things were different, simpler. When I still had a best friend and a group of buddies I could count on. Sky Harbor International Airport is only but a symbol of my childhood now, a symbol of a city I will always seem to love and possibly deep down always call home. It had been the one thing I’d hoped to never see again after I’d said goodbye to it and Arizona and everything that was there in that barren desert landscape just one summer ago.

I rest my head against the seat, closing my eyes and relaxing my tense muscles, as I hear the captain’s booming voice come over the intercom to inform us that we would be landing in just a few moments and that we should put our seat belts on. My least favorite parts of flying have always been the taking off and the landing. I didn’t like the feeling my stomach got and how the entire craft shook. I hate that my ears pop and I feel disoriented and sick. Shutting my eyes tightly and feeling my fingers curl around the arm rests of my seat, I mutter another word to God hoping that we would all be safe. My palms are sweaty and my brows are touching each other in the middle of my forehead, and I feel my stomach drop. I press my back to the seat as far as I can and think of the happiest thoughts I can manage at this distressful time. Ponies, cotton candy, unicorns, California, and Hugh Grant. Anything that can get my mind off the feeling of sickness that’s overcoming me. Anything that will keep my mind off of everything I’m feeling as the plane approaches the ground.

Suddenly, the plane bounces as the wheels touch the pavement and the pilot comes back on the intercom to welcome us to our destination. Once the plane has finally stopped at our terminal, the passengers around me start to shuffle and gather their belongings from the overhead compartment and under the seats. I wait for them to clear and then grab my tote bag off the floor, sliding out of my cardigan as I do so for I know it won’t be needed any longer. I quickly retrieve all my things and walk the length of the airplane towards the exit where a smiling stewardess is standing to bid me farewell and wish me a nice day. I tell her the same and exit off the plane.

Heading out of the terminal, I find myself caught in a sea of busy bodies. All of their destinations are unknown to me, but I know they have either just landed in Phoenix or they are boarding a flight out of here. I’m caught in a whirlwind of farewells and reunions and hellos and goodbyes. There’s a young couple as old as I am who are parting ways, whispering sweet words and crying softly and telling each other lengthy confessions of love and how much they would miss one another. There are businessmen and women in gray or black suits, carrying a briefcase in their hand and a cell phone in the other, walking purposefully to wherever they may need to be. A young mother and daughter are walking hand in hand towards a brawny man with a large pack on his back and a wide grin on his face. The little girl runs full speed, straight into his open arms as he stoops down to pick her up in the largest hug you could imagine. She giggles and wraps her arms around his neck and snuggles into his neck like a cat, closing her eyes and engraving this precious moment in her mind for later years to come.

I turn away from the intimate moment between the father and daughter and don’t bother to look for anyone familiar. Instead, I hitch my bag higher up my shoulder and head for the glass doors that lead outside. Like previous summers, I make my way to the curb where a line of cabs are waiting until they’re called upon a traveler. The first one is already being occupied by an elderly couple, so I start for the second one and find that that one’s empty. In the third one, a man with a friendly face smiles at me and tips his newsboy cap. I smile hesitantly back and head for that one. He steps out and grabs the luggage I’m lugging behind me and throws it into his trunk, while I slide into the backseat of the cab to wait for him to finish. He’s dressed nicely in khaki slacks and a short-sleeved oxford shirt. His brown shoes look worn out, but I notice he still tries to keep them shiny. For a moment, I admire his appearance—he still managed to look presentable, even if he was only but a cab driver.

“Where to?” he asks as he jumps into the driver’s seat and starts the car. His face is wrinkled and he looks just shy of sixty. He’s balding at the front and, in the back, his hair is salt-and-pepper. His brown eyes are kind and he has a pleasant face, like he’s lived a happy life. I see a gold band wrapped around his left ring finger. It shines in the sunlight and looks out of place against his dark skin.

“7400 Camelback Road, Scottsdale,” I reply. He looks at me through the rear-view mirror and nods his head. We finally set off down the road through the bustling streets of Arizona’s capital. I stare out the window at the passing scenery while the music from a classic rock radio station flows softly through the speakers of the car. As I watch the streets go by and all of Phoenix before me, I realize that everything is just the same—maybe, with the exception of myself. It feels like nothing has changed. The tall palm trees and the dry bush; the shiny cars and tall buildings; the parched air and the blazing sun; the people; the wide expanse of sky that extended horizon to horizon. It was all the same as I had remembered. I guess I shouldn’t have expected things to change drastically after only a year away. I guess I just expected things to change because I, myself, had changed. But life goes on. Everyone moves on even if you’re stuck somewhere, everyone is moving around you, living life. They can’t be bothered to stop for you, because they have their own lives to worry about.

I’m so caught up in my thoughts that I don’t hear what the cab driver’s just said, so I mutter an apology and ask him to repeat himself.

He smiles like he understands, and asks, “You visiting or coming home?”

I bite my lip and mull over a reply. “Sort of both,” I tell him truthfully. “My momma lives here. I was born and raised here, but I’ve moved to California.”

“You like it there?” he queries, intrigued. I smile and think of the beach and the cool climate of the East Bay.

“Yeah,” I smile. “It’s lovely; it’s home now.”

A frown crosses his face, like he’s appalled, but it disappears as fast as it had appeared, and he raises his eyebrows at me. I stare back at him through the mirror as the car idles at a stoplight. “But Arizona’s always gonna be home?” he insists. “This place, darlin’, this is my home. I can’t imagine living anywhere else.”

“That’s how I felt before, too,” I empathize.

“And what happened, honey?”

I shrug my shoulders as I turn my eyes back to the blurs of streets and structures and he moves the car forward. “Things…they changed—they changed for me, and I realized I had to get away.”

He nods his head, like he’s processing my words before he makes a response.

“If you ask me,” he begins, and I don’t tell him to stop, although I’m not that interested in what he’s got to say. “Change isn’t something you should run away from. It makes you grow as a person. You might not always like it, and you might not always welcome it, but it happens and when it does, you just gotta accept it.”

“What if the change…What if it affects every aspect of your life?” I inquire with curiosity.

“Maybe it’s a good thing.” He shrugs his shoulders and glances back at me to assess my expression. “Mind if I asked what this change was?”

I breathe in an intake of air and prepare to answer him. A twinge of anguish momentarily overcomes me, and I push it to the back of my mind as I clutch my stomach. “I lost every person I had ever loved.”

“And that’s why you left for California?”

I shake my head and feel my lips turn south in a small frown. “No, I left because I realized that once everyone you love is gone, it doesn’t feel like home anymore,” I tell him sadly. “Arizona—it might be home, but it sure doesn’t feel like it anymore. Not when I don’t feel welcome.”