Ohio has a coastline that snakes
thinner than its five lane highways.
I had no idea.
The houses are square, two stories, peaked roofs, close together as teeth with full green trees gumming between them.
The airport is clean and old and new here.
There are no outlets for charging computers. One hand dryer to six paper towel dispensers in the clean marble and steel bathroom.
Each stall could fit three people, each towel dispenser spits out double layered paper towels. But the toilets flush without being told.
In Ohio, you can get a large iced latte for $2.99, and the lady won’t think you’re cute when you exclaim about how wonderfully inexpensive things are.
The security guards are on break near terminal C. Sitting with soft bodies on a stationary conveyer belt, laughing about something the passing pilot said to them.
There are a few single travelers eating alone in Panini’s bar,even this early. More of the travelers here are family though. Husbands and wives toting their car seats, animal suitcases, and strollers. The nine year old boy next to me is stuttering, pushing slowly, painfully through a graphic novel about wrestlers. His mother is beaming beside him, unhurried and unabashedly proud.
The old people whispering to each other and giggling, are younger in love than I ever was.
The woman on the loud speaker is half robot, half drawling mother at a PTA. If I knew where she was, if I could get to her, I would make it stop.
The woman across from me in all blue with a soft, full, wrinkled neck and gardenia perfume, has been playing word search games since I sat.
Now a tall greying man with brill cream hair and a blue collared button down is handing her a waxy paper bag from Cinnabon. She blushes, and he kisses her thin, teased red hair. She turns back to her word search, a small smile playing with the corners of her mouth.
There are eight small children at gate C3 alone, and four sets of parents among them. The announcement speaker crackles. Our flight is over full by three. They are offering a voucher if I’ll catch the next flight.
The man in the wheelchair beside me looks at his wife. His teenage son shrugs and his wife asks if he wants to volunteer. He nods and she heads toward the desk.
It’s not fair, only knowing a state by its airport. My group is called and again, I am leaving Ohio.