Life, my dear, is nothing more
than a string of boarding passes—
some stamped “one-way,”
others “delayed indefinitely,”
and a few with destinations
we swore we never booked.
Relationships? They’re layovers.
Some are quick:
a coffee in the terminal,
a laugh, a spark, a goodbye.
Others drag on like flights grounded in storm weather,
where the air grows stale,
and you start asking,
“Is this connection ever going to leave?”
I have learned to pack lightly.
Fold my clothes with grace.
Sweep the corners of unfinished business,
smile at the memories
that cling like souvenir magnets,
and discard the rest—
like overpriced airport snacks
I never needed anyway.
Then comes the voice overhead:
Final call. All passengers must board.
I look around—
no unfinished affairs, no shadows lurking,
just me and my clarity.
I step forward without fanfare,
because leaving with dignity
is the most elegant power move of all.
Up in the clouds,
the world below softens into perspective.
What once felt like loss
now feels like liberation,
a seat by the window
where altitude teaches wisdom.
So I say it with humor, with poise,
with the sacred boldness of goodbye:
It was great.
It was sad.
But it was good.
And as the plane ascends,
I toast the sky with quiet triumph—
to journeys that end,
to ones yet to begin,
to discernment as the passport
no one can counterfeit—
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