a new world hangs outside the window
beautiful and strange
it must be I've fallen awake
I must be

She hated the airport.

It made her antsy, jittery even. Being in such close proximity to so many people. Waiting in long, slow-moving lines just to be patted down by a stranger... Having to walk in her bare feet, if only for a few minutes and only a handful of steps, all of it was humiliating. Perhaps that's why she'd yet to visit Leslie at her university.

Much to her relief, Leslie volunteered to come home for the holidays, even though there wasn't much of a "home" waiting for her in Sacrosanct any longer. Instead of relaxing in her old childhood bedroom, Leslie would look at it from the outside, through the upstairs window, while the couple Buffy rented the house to remained inside. It was awkward of course, and perhaps a little bit melancholy, but Leslie took it all in stride. It was probably easier this way, since that house still had so many memories of their late mother floating around in it.

Nevertheless, Buffy fretted over Leslie's visit. It was their first Thanksgiving together since their mother died, even if two Thanksgiving holidays had passed since she fell ill and never recovered. Leslie hadn't been home in a while. She would hole up in Buffy's small make-shift garage apartment, in the backyard of their childhood home nonetheless, with just Simon the cat for company other than her anxious older sister.

Somehow, they made it work. They cooked together all day and watched the Macy's Day Parade on TV, like they used to with mom. They probably drank too much wine. They look long strolls through DuPont Circle, laughing about old squabbles from their past. The long weekend did a lot to liff Buffy's spirits. And when her younger sister pried about her current state, Buffy let her guard down. They cried together. They mourned together. It was hard, as the minutes passed and then the hours, to know that Leslie would have to leave again soon.

Buffy saw her off at the airport, despite Leslie's offer to take an Uber by herself. And Buffy managed to keep it together, even as she watched her sister disappear past the security line and throngs of travelers. She remembered her breathing exercises the therapist told her about as her eyes began to well with salty tears. And instead of bee-lining it back to the Metro station, she slid into a small airport bar and ordered a shot of whiskey, then a cold dark beer.

The bar was busy, travelers with suitcases and laptop bags coming and going. Some families hovered around small tables on the sticky floor. Football blared from the television screens overhead. Buffy knocked back the shot fairly quickly, and nursed the cold beer for sometime, trying to enjoy the fact that she felt invisible in the hustle and bustle of the airport at the end of a holiday weekend.

GIA BUFFY JONES