I’ll be in an airport next week. Tucked into my suitcase: long woolen socks, a few novels from class that I can’t part with, and a hand-knit sweater (not knit by me). My bag is swollen with the better parts of my life, as well as the mundane toothbrush and some less exciting socks. If someone opened it they might see right through me; they might not. Maybe they’d see that I’m trying really hard. 
Layover in Chicago Midway. I’ll have a hot dog (poppy seed bun, sport peppers, pickles, mustard). Like nowhere else, the airport is a place of simultaneous vulnerability and anonymity. I know why I’m going where I’m going. But why are they? The plane taking me home is delivering someone else far from theirs.