The heavy brass wheels of an oversized suitcase collided with the edge of the metal baggage carousel, sending a sharp metallic crack through the terminal. Below the tear in the heavy plastic wrap, a sliver of immaculate white wool was visible.
I stood perfectly still as the conveyor belt groaned under the weight of eighty bags from the morning flight. The smell of jet fuel and damp Virginia pine drifted through the sliding doors of Norfolk International Airport, thick with the cold humidity of late autumn.
Around me, travelers adjusted their coats and checked their wristwatches, eager to escape the sterile warmth of the arrivals terminal. A family of four squeezed past my shoulder, their loud laughter bouncing off the low, tiled ceiling.
A baggage handler in a bright orange vest gestured toward the conveyor belt with a gloved hand.
“Is that black one yours, ma’am?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “Thank you.”
I lifted the heavy garment bag off the metal track myself, refusing his offered assistance with a quiet nod of my head. The brass zipper clinked against the buckle of my duffel bag, a solid, reassuring sound that belonged to thirty-six hours of continuous travel across two oceans.
I carried the bags toward a row of plastic chairs near the exit, my shoulders squaring automatically under the weight.
My phone buzzed in my coat pocket at exactly 12:08 p.m.
The screen lit up with a message from my father.
“Make sure you don’t wear your uniform today.”
I stared at the seven words on the small glass screen. There was no greeting, no mention of my long flight from San Diego, and no inquiry about whether I had landed safely.
A small boy nearby dropped a toy plastic airplane, and his father picked it up without stopping, his arm slung around his wife’s shoulders as they walked toward the car rentals.
I slipped my phone back into my pocket and tightened my grip on the handle of the garment bag.
