First Crossing

The airport floor, a stretch

of polished gray, so wide.

My backpack felt a heavy fetch,

with nowhere left to hide.

A ticket clutched, a paper bright,

my hand, a shaky hold.

A kid stared at a board of light,

a story to unfold.

My worn-out shoe, its heel then new,

now etched with stony grit.

A map, once crisp, now soft and true,

where worried thumbprints sit.

The gate called out, a distant hum,

and then the seat, a small,

contained new world, to overcome.

No one to break the fall.

Just me, and air, and engine drone,

a quiet, rising fright.

And for the first time, truly known,

my own uncharted flight.