I am sitting at a window seat. We've landed and are waiting. I see a luggage train. I recognise the bags. They're mine - all of them. I see the ones I bought with me but either recognise the others or know they're mine as well - every piece of baggage is mine. I'm roused from my thoughtfulness by the sight of two children standing on the tarmac.
They stand silently staring and I know and they know that the luggage train is heading for them. They wait stoically. I watch in horror. I know these children - girls aged eight and four - my daughters, our daughters standing calmly and confidently. The train travels recklessly as they often seem to.
The plane is one of those shared flights from Wellington to Sydney, the passengers a mix of AirNew Zealand and Qantas customers. I seem to be the only one on board although the flight is full. I am alone with too many people too close. I see the speeding luggage train. I see the waiting girls. I anticipate the impact.
The train with all my baggage, accumulated over almost 49 years, hits them. They almost don't notice. Luggage and pieces of the train fly everywhere. The contents of the cases and boxes and bags blow around. My daughters see me through the plane window and start waving.
Later at home I tell the story of the crash. The eight year old rolls her eyes and accuses me of being an extremist. The four year has moved on to other better more four-year-old centric stories mainly about kindy friends and candy canes.
It's good to be home.