1
Mom says you get two birthdays.
The first one is the day you are born.
The second is the day you leave home and give birth to yourself.
I never understood what she meant by that, but standing in the middle of this bustling airport, I can’t help but wonder if this is the day she was talking about. If it is, the tears in my eyes don’t feel like anything to celebrate. Birthdays are not supposed to make you cry. Birthdays are not supposed to grow heavy lumps in the back of your throat that threaten to choke you on your words if you dare open your mouth.
Birthdays are not supposed to break your heart.
Be brave. Be brave.
I repeat it over and over again in my head as I squeeze my mom’s hand a little tighter. My stomach drops, dreading the moment she’ll inevitably let go. In the air, I can taste the sweet melancholy of joyous hellos and painful goodbyes that only the airport can bring. There is a buzzing to this place that feels like the center of heartbreak and joy. Its contradiction sends an unsettling shiver through my body. I feel like a child, embarrassed my emotions are giving me away.
Suck it up, I scold myself. It’s only two months.
“We’re here,” Mom says into the phone. “They just checked in.”
She’s quiet as she listens, her ear pressed to the phone. “I packed some shirts for you. And there’s a few bags of coffee in Mia’s suitcase, so you’ll be stocked up for work. Make sure you take them out. Mhm, everything’s in there—uh-huh. Oh shoot.” She lets go of my hand, turning her back to us. “I forgot to pack that deodorant you like. I’ll send down a few packs this week—yeah, okay. And don’t forget Mia’s allergy medicine. It’s in the side pock—I’m not saying you’re going to forget, Tyson.” Her voice goes hushed. “I’m just telling you where it is.” She’s quiet for a moment, listening. “Look, Tyson. Let’s not do this now—call me when they land.”
I bite down on my lip to stop it from quivering as she turns back around. My mother’s eyes are so kind. They are a deep sea of brown that perfectly match her rich dark skin, and they stare back at me with a compassion only her heart could know. She smiles at me with longing in her eyes.
She knows this is not what I want.
“Did you remember to pack the gum?” she asks.
“Yes, Mom. You asked me that already.”
“I’m just making sure. I don’t want your ears to pop on the plane.”
I feel guilty for the irritation in my tone. I know she’s being helpful, but for some reason, it annoys me. Maybe it’s because it’s the first time my sister and I are flying alone. Maybe it’s because I would rather be anywhere else than in the middle of a cold, busy airport at 8:00 a.m. on a Thursday morning. Or maybe it’s because I don’t want to spend the summer with my father.
Yet after months of protest, here I am.
“Are you sure you can’t come with us?” my little sister, Mia, pleads desperately.
A sadness runs through our mother’s eyes as she adjusts her dark brown locks. “You know I have to work, baby. But your father is so excited to see you.”
Mia sulks at the mention of our father.
I don’t blame her.
Mom turns to me, cupping my face in her hands. “I love you more than words, Tilla.” She kisses me so gently on my cheek that I barely feel it. “You’re going to grow so much this summer.” She can’t hold back the tears that stream down her face.
And damn it, neither can I.
“I love you, too, Mom. So much,” I reply, choking on that lump.
“It’s only two months.” She smiles, tucking a strand of my coily Afro behind my ears. “It’s going to fly by.”
“Two months without cell service.” I muster a smile.
“I’m sure your thumbs could use the break.” She laughs. “Come here.” She pulls me in close, wrapping us both in a hug. “Take care of your sister, okay?” she whispers to me. “You’re in charge.”
“Of herself…” Mia rolls her eyes. Mom gives her a look. “She’s barely eighteen. What does she know?” Mia mutters.
I ignore her. I’m too sad to argue with Mia right now. “I will, Mom,” I reply.
Mom squeezes in one last hug before the inevitable. She lets us go, the warmth of her hug lingering on my brown skin. Suddenly, a crass voice comes over the speakers, pulling me out of our goodbye.
“Last call for all passengers boarding flight 416. Please make your way to Gate 8A.”
I throw my backpack over my shoulder, and with one last look to our mother, we wave goodbye. “I love you!” she calls after us. In her eyes, I can see her heart breaking.
But there is no turning back.
The airport is big and daunting, and as we navigate through it, I can’t help but feel small. We head through security and approach our gate, where an attendant checks our boarding passes. When she flashes me a dry smile of approval, Mia and I head through the final doors and onto the plane.
It’s completely packed when we get on board. I immediately feel claustrophobic as I look down at the plane tickets in my hand.
“Seat 15B,” I tell Mia.
I can feel the eyes of the seated passengers burning into me, and I start to remember just how awkward walking to your seat on a plane can be. Mia and I continue down the cramped aisle as I search the luggage panels for our seat number.
Mia beats me to it.
“Right here!”
She plops down and slides to the window seat. I slide in next to her, relieved that we finally made it. Mia pulls out her Nintendo.
“Are you sure you want the window seat?” I ask.
“Duh,” she replies distractedly. “Why wouldn’t I?”
“Just making sure. I didn’t know if you wanted to see everything … you know, when we’re so high up.”
“That’s not gonna work, Tilla. I know what you’re trying to do.”
“I’m just checking. Swear.” I buckle my seat belt, nudging her to do the same. Just then, a flight attendant walks over.
She leans over our seats, a tight grin on her face.
“Hello, ladies.” Her perfume is way too strong. “I’m Lisa. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask me. I may or may not have a secret stash of candy.” She winks before taking off down the aisle.
“Candy?” Mia screws her face. “What am I, five?”
“She was being nice.”
“She smells like car freshener.”
I can’t help but laugh. Mia always says what’s on her mind, and I admire her for it. She’s loud and rambunctious with warm reddish-brown eyes and thick dreadlocks that she insisted on when she was seven. Mom says she gets her carefree spirit from our dad. At only nine years old, she says whatever rolls off her tongue with little regard for the opinions of others, and I love that about her.
The irony is I resent that very same quality in my father.
Mia looks at me before popping in her earphones.
“Get up,” she says.
“What?”
“I want the aisle seat.”
I try to suppress my smile. “Oh. You changed your mind?”
“You’re so annoying.” She rolls her eyes, undoing her seat belt. I slide into her seat, just as another flight attendant comes over the PA, her thick accent muffled through the airplane speakers.
“Ladiez and gentle-mon, welcome aboard flight 416 departing from Toronto to Kingston on this beautiful Thursday morning. We invite you to sit back, relax, and leave your worries behind you. From all of us here at Air Jamaica, it is our pleasure to have you on board.”
The roar of the engine makes my palms clammy. I’m not sure what’s more overwhelming—the pulsing vibration of the plane or my own heartbeat. The destination is inevitable:
We are en route to Jamaica.
A wave of anxiety rushes through me.
Breathe, Tilla.
I look over at Mia, who casually plays her Nintendo DS, and I’m reminded that she has little to be worried about. There is nothing at stake for her. She was too young to even remember. To truly understand.
Her heart is not on the line when it comes to our father.
Our father’s name is Tyson, and he stands six foot two, with warm caramel skin and brown locks that fall down his back. He has gray eyes that look like an overcast sky and a smile that could light up the dark. He is a man of the land, and he spends half of the year going back and forth between Toronto and Jamaica, where he manages his cousin’s trucking business.
But that is not the full story of his absence.
When I was a child, my father was the most fascinating person I knew. To my young heart, everything he did compelled me. During the summer when we were younger, he would look after us in the daytime while Mom went to work, and I recall using nap times as quiet opportunities to study him. On hot summer days, I would lie on the couch as my eyes tried to make sense of such a wonderful human being, who seemed to have transcended human being. I was fascinated by my father—he was the Rubik’s cube I was determined to solve. I would watch in admiration as he sunbathed in the backyard, his Jamaican beaded chain the only thing to touch his chest. He was unaware of my peering little eyes, and I would fall asleep to the sight of his chest rise and fall under the rays of the setting sun. I experienced many sunsets this way, all of which confirmed that my father was pure, utter magic. The countless minutes, hours, and days we would spend together quickly became the same minutes, hours, and days that would shape who I was becoming. It seemed that I, by the grace of God, was a part of him. He was a ray of light that existed through some sort of magic, grace, and manhood. He was the hero in every storybook he had ever read me.
But all fairy tales must come to an end.
My father was born in the countryside of Jamaica, and although he moved to Canada in his twenties, his heart never left the island. Not like Mom. She moved to Canada when she was twelve years old and left all memory of her life in Kingston behind. But Dad could never let go. Although he started a family abroad, Jamaica was the one he longed for when he was with us. She was his first love. It didn’t matter that together we had built a house.
Copyright © 2021 by Asha Bromfield
Copyright © 2023 by Asha Ashanti Bromfield.