I Didn't Recognize My Own Father at the Airport Six years is long enough for a face to become a stranger's, even when it's your father's. I stood in the arrivals hall scanning every man who came through the doors, certain I would know him instantly. I didn't. He walked past me first. I recognized his walk before I recognized his face. ――― He was thinner than I remembered, his hair almost entirely white now, and for a full three seconds I stood there, a grown woman, unable to recognize the man who taught me to ride a bicycle, because six years of video calls had frozen him, in my mind, at an age he no longer was. ――― When he saw me, he didn't run. He just stopped, and put down his bag, and opened his arms the exact same way he had at every airport, every visit, for as long as I could remember, and the moment I stepped into them, he smelled exactly the same, and every year of distance collapsed into nothing. ――― What six years apart actually cost Not the big things. Those, we kept up with — the calls, the messages, the photos. What we lost was smaller, and harder to name. The way he'd say my name in person, which a screen can't quite carry. The specific weight of his hand on my shoulder. The exact sound of him setting down a suitcase after a twenty-hour flight, tired, but standing there anyway. ――― What the hug gave back Twelve seconds. That's how long we stood there, by the arrivals gate, not saying anything, while people walked around us, and I thought, this is the thing no video call ever gave me, the actual weight of him, solid, real, not a face on a screen that I could close whenever I wanted, but a person I had to hold onto, because for six years, I hadn't been able to. ――― From Homeriah Distance doesn't erase love. But it takes something specific away — the shape of a hug you can't get through a screen. Go home while you still can. ――― Memory Prompt Think of someone you love who lives far away. Write down one specific thing about being near them that video calls can never give you. Then plan the trip.