My onion of memories

Airport

I’m carefully peeling my onion of memories. I’m not after surgical precision, no knife. I am gentle and slow enough to hold back tears.

We are at the airport. It’s crowded, a blur of nonstop movement. Some are sleeping on the seats, others right on the floor. I worry that those moving through will trip over those sprawled out. My focus is on my sons beside me. I know their FOMO—fear of missing out—could pull them away to chase some detail, some additional insight. But they're tired, and exhaustion is winning. They’re fighting not to fall asleep. So am I.

We’re waiting for the connecting flight from New York City (the Big Apple) to New Orleans (the Big Easy). I might call it the “small Apple,” or maybe even swap the titles altogether. For now, I don’t know what either city means.

We’re watching a family of ducks: a big hat duck in front, then a smaller duck in a headscarf, followed by seven ducklings. They waddle through the terminal—noisy and unbothered—trailing their parents without hesitation. I worry one might get lost in the crowd, but they stay in perfect formation. The mother duck glances back now and then to count. I keep my eyes on my two. I’m afraid to lose them. I don’t trust the crowd—or the voices around me. So many languages, none of them familiar.

At last, our flight is called. Just three hours to go, a relief after ten across the Atlantic. We’re drained, but adrenaline kicks in and shields us from hunger or sleep. Boarding feels exhilarating, a new beginning. So much to learn. So much to discover. Then comes our first shock of arrival. The moment we step out of the airport in New Orleans, the heat and humidity envelop us. My glasses fog instantly. I can’t see. I grab the hands of my twins, and I am relieved.

The air is thick, and I gasp. Then adrenaline returns, and I’m ready for the taxi, for whatever comes next. The heat and humidity shock us. The boys are too tired to notice much, but the heat leaves its mark. It is the sign of the Big Easy. The next one will be jazz.

Even thirty-eight years later, I remember it, or think I do. Peeling back the layers of memory, I avoid the knife. I don’t need precision. Memory is trustworthy, and it is not. The details shift, they erase each other. The ducks, father, mother, and seven ducklings, are my first memory of America. I remember them almost as vividly as the overwhelming sense of heat and humidity. Why do I remember them?

My destination was New Orleans, our first port of entry. My onion begins to peel, softly, carefully, not to provoke tears, not to cause regret. For me, the beginning of a new beginning is also called an exile.

What is my memory choosing to remember? What am I choosing to create?