The Salt of Transit

The air in a terminal tastes of ozone and recycled breath, a metallic tang that clings to the back of the throat. It is a dry, sterile flavor, stripped of the damp earth or blooming jasmine that anchors a person to a home. I remember the feeling of my own skin in such places—tight, slightly dehydrated, as if the altitude has pulled the moisture right out of my pores. There is a specific vibration in the floorboards of a gate, a low-frequency hum that travels up through the soles of my shoes and settles into my shins. It is the sensation of being suspended, of existing in the hollow space between where you have been and where you are promised to go. We are all just waiting for the signal to shed our current skin and become someone else, somewhere else. Does the body ever truly arrive, or does it always leave a ghost of itself behind in the waiting room?

Nicole Pandolfo has captured this transient ache in her image titled Departures and Arrivals. She finds the weight of that suspension in the quiet posture of a traveler. Does this stillness feel like a beginning or an end to you?