The First Night Alone

After dropping Zach off at the airport in Fairbanks, I panicked.

The door is cold against my fingertips, and I shiver, though the warmth of a summer’s day lingers like the glow of sunlight in the sky. I’ve got the key touching the lock, I’m inches from stepping inside, being settled down for the evening, warm and tucked away from the world and all by myself, and I can’t stand to do it.

Those first moments, after driving away from the airport, were exciting. I was really off, now, knee deep in my grand adventure. It was up to me to decide, to make waves, to succeed or fail or something in between. And I made it back to Fairbanks’ Pioneer Park before it hit me properly: I was completely alone, in a half-finished van, thousands of miles from home. Suddenly I felt small and weak and unprepared, suddenly two weeks of driving felt like eternity, suddenly I felt certain I would never make it home. That small space, fifty square feet, suddenly felt much too large and much too empty.

I found myself scrambling to get out, slamming the door shut behind me and wincing at the noise as it struck me that it was late at night, no matter what the bright sky might have me believe. This place seemed terribly alien, all of a sudden, much further than just another state, another corner of the continent. It felt like a different planet, where the days were too long and the sunshine not quite warm enough. Where night was a myth or time stood still.

I sucked in deep breaths, fighting for calm, fighting to get myself back inside so I could go to bed and make the best of this new world order in the morning. And then I pressed the key to the lock, with every intention of going back inside, and stood there, hesitating, the fingers of my other hand pressed to the door.

It’s cold against my fingertips, and I shiver. I look to the sky, and then to the open gates of Pioneer Park, and I put the key in my pocket. Instead I take out my phone and hit shuffle.

The songs come lightly over the slowly cooling air, slipping between shadows as dusk starts to set in. I walk through the park, quickly to work off my panic, and drink in the old houses and tree-lined paths. I stop at the swings, and take off into the sky, still pale blue even as midnight creeps closer. Eyes shut, I can imagine I’m flying, seeing all this unfold below me as I wing my way home. All along, the music carries me closer to earth, reminds me that this moment is mine for the taking, mine to master.

Eventually I touch down and wander toward the train tracks, walking along them to the platform, sometimes balancing on the rails. And as I slip back into the mock-town, the song changes, familiar notes lifting soothingly to my ears. I can’t help but turn it up, and let the music drive me. The empty park, the pioneer village, becomes my own personal set, and I let the music fill me up and take control of my body, skipping and gliding and kicking and sweeping my way through the streets, pleased that no one is around because I can’t be bothered to think about how mad I must look. Dusk has set in, now, the sky still bright but the light lazy and the air cool, raising goosebumps on my skin while the quick movements burn my blood.

My breaths come quickly now for an entirely different reason. I’m panting with satisfaction as I turn the music into physicality, dancing up the steps of the gazebo as the song changes again.

It’s midnight when I finally stop, so wrung out that I stumble a bit as I drop down on the steps.

I’m still thousands of miles from home. The van is still a strange excuse for a tent. I’m still utterly alone. The fear still sits, pouting, low in my chest.

But there’s joy here, too. There’s freedom, and discovery, and potential. A song can become a dance. A day can linger long into the night. The streets of history can lead into the future. And I believe, at least for now, that I can do this.