T is for Terminal B

Terminal B

I stand naked in the stall
of the DFW Airport Terminal B
bathrooms near dunkin doughnuts
changing out of myself
into myself again.

Those clothes
dirty, reeking of a former life
are neatly piled into a heap
at my feet
with boots covered in mud.

And I perform
the ritual cleansing
of a Wet Napp
and miniature hairbrushes
while standing on my toes.

Then comes a new me
unsealed from the pristine
plastic freezer bag
of new life
and new clothes.

A pair of jean, nearly pressed
into a single sheet
with a new shirt
and cardigan
to button me back up.

Lovely socks
dry and smelling of dryer sheets
slip into those clean sneakers
hidden at the bottom
of an overfilled bag.

A little lipstick
and the dirty laundry sacked
hair brushed, earrings in
I emerge
A different girl.

 

For the month of April I’ve committed to writing 26 poems, falling into the Alphabet.  To learn more about my project, check out my introduction.  To learn more about the A-to-Z Challenge visit www.a-to-zchallenge.com.

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Ritual of Return

It was the same each time, when they returned, each from a different destination, hers for work, his for pleasure- though he had done much better with his time.

They would talk, annoying the server, without remembering to check the menu to order. She would peel away the layers, like an onion he would think. A hat, a scarf, a sweater, a shirt- down to the tee shirt and St.Christopher which adorned her neck, tarnished with too many wears, too few moments of attention.

He knew the jingle of those talisman, a simple cross she had worn when they were young, dents from the nervous teething of a teen aged traveler. She would run her fingers over them, smoothing flat the icon of a failed Saint, rounding edges of the Christ knot, and they would discuss the day, the night, the trip.

It was everything they needed. In the dark corners of a pizza chain, picking at pepperoni with their fingers, ignoring the grumbling staff. This night was theirs from mission and a field visit. No husband, no wife, no work or church or requirements.

Just them. In the ritual of return.

Flash Fiction, prompted by Daily Post’s Time after Time