Amanda Joshua
On wanting a ride to the airport
I cried in front of the Uber driver because he smiled at my dad and said, don’t worry I’ll look after your daughter.
I cried because airports remind me of the scene from Love Actually where people hug each other in front of the arrivals and Hugh Grant says, if you look for it, love actually is all around. It is probably the cheapest line in film history and my self-indulgent girl heart actually loves it.
I think I cried because once Liz saw a message I left unopened and she said, you can’t just ghost your father, and I said, well he ghosted me for six years, and she laughed and I felt good that she was laughing—only today I am going to the airport.
Airports make me sad because I keep hoping there will be someone at the gate.
My Uber driver is wise and worldly (he has misjudged the situation completely and is giving me useless advice). But he has two boys. One is a pilot and one is in Year Twelve and I eat stories about nice fathers with relish, lick my fingers after. Because of this, I listen intently for 23 minutes and nod when he tells me his boys miss him when they travel—but they can always come back home!
I keep trying to teach people the way I like it. I lead by example because asking is a sin. I check the app for the flight time—show up 20 minutes before it lands. I check, I check into short term parking, willingly pay the 12-dollar charge, pay for two bunches of overpriced flowers without flinching. I strip, I strip off the sadder leaves, pry open petulant buds with greedy fingers asking—is a sin and I wait at the arrivals for everyone I’ve ever loved.
I think I cried because when I was little, I pawed through my parents’ wedding photos—sulking for lack of an impossible invitation. In my twenties, I attend my father’s second wedding and wonder who my new step-siblings are describing in their speeches. A soft, well-spoken man, the kind they had always wanted their mum to meet. I think about the scar above my mother’s left eyebrow, how two things can be true at once and I step up to the mic, say winningly, I’m my dad’s best man!
I am playing pre-made, ready-to-display daughter! Complete with law degree and bright squeaky future, no assembly necessary! He told me once, it’s a lot easier to get along with you now that you’re grown up! His new wife is sweet and has eyes so warm I nearly forgive him for saying it. Would never ruin your wedding daughter, woman my mother built—I tell the microphone I am proud of my dad and I am. I tell myself I am proud of how easy I have made it for him to love me.
The crowd whoops and I leave with the boy I have been dating. I let him take off my good-girl uniform and slip into good-girlfriend even though I am exhausted from being palatable all day. Before the sleep takes him, he tells me, I really like your dad! I tell the night air—yeah, he really likes you too.
In two weeks, I will mention my trip casually. They will not offer to drive me to the airport. My dad will suggest, a coffee! before you leave! I will climb into the Uber with my suitcase, send a breakup text and listen to the driver talk about his children.
Amanda Joshua has publications in places like Starling, Takahē and Poetry New Zealand. She likes citrus fruits, the first 20 minutes of horror movies and she hates icebreakers.