Stepping Off the Plane, Into a Life Half Forgotten

When I stepped off the plane, I felt excited.

I was finally home after 2 years!

But the thick summer air smacked me in the face like a wet towel.

After years of breathing the chilled, recycled gusts on London buses, my lungs don’t know what to do with the humidity. I felt like a deep sea diver surfacing too quickly, paranoid that my tissues might explode from the pressure change.

At the baggage carousel, I’m engulfed by a sea of spoken Romanian, the familiar syllables washing over me like a lullaby I’d forgotten the words to.

Phrases stick out here and there…

But disappear just as quickly.

It’s been so long since I let the language swirl freely through my mind instead of bottling it up in some dusty cupboard, only to be uncorked during phone calls with my family back home.

Hearing it now almost feels stiff, like trying to walk straight after weeks in a cast. It’s a strange feeling when words come easier in your second language, rather than you’re native tongue.

Lugging my overstuffed suitcase behind me, I make my way outside, scanning the crowds for a familiar face.

And there she is.

My little sister Iulia, bouncing on her heels and waving excitedly.

In my mind, she’s still a skinny kid, but the woman greeting me now has curves, makeup, and stylish clothes.

Have I really been away this long?

We crash into each other, and her flowery perfume overwhelms my senses. She feels so slight in my arms. She pulls back and looks me over with a critical eye:

“You’ve let your hair grow wild, Livia!” she says.

“What happened?”

I roll my eyes dramatically.

“Sorry Iulia, no time for salon appointments when you’re battling the healthcare hydra twelve hours a day.”

She pats my head patronizingly. “I’ll book you an emergency appointment. We can’t have everybody not recognizing you!”

I snort, shoving her playfully towards the parking lot.

Some things never change.

The drive home is surreal.

It feels like riding through a dream I’ve had a thousand times. The old apartment blocks still loom alongside the road, stoic and square-shouldered.

Strings of colorful flags crisscross the streets, remnants of recent national celebrations. In the distance, Orthodox churches are holding steady watch against the encroaching glass and steel highrises.

We turn down the potholed road toward my childhood home, and everything looks smaller than I remember it.

I see the neighbor’s tree we used to steal cherries from as kids. But it seems more like a bonsai plant now.

The neighbor is surprised to see me:

“Livia, you’re home! For how long?”

“Oh, just 2 weeks!”

“Only 2 weeks? Well, you still know where the cherries are!”

I smile sheepishly. “Haha, yes, thanks!”

I walk up the stairs in our apartment block and see my parents in the flesh for the first time in 2 years.

We cling to each other wordlessly in the foyer, their bodies fragile yet sturdy as oak. I note the new creases in their skin, the sparse patches in my father’s beard, and the extra stoop in my mother’s posture. But their eyes still spark with the same fiery pride when they look at me.

Over heaping platters of sarmale and mici, conversation flows between us with the uneasy cadence of a recently reunited family.

We volley questions and stories back and forth.

There’s laughter, yet hesitation too.

My vocabulary feels rusty somehow.

Perhaps I’m just tired.

My father snorts into his wine.

You’ve picked up that British accent!”

We all cackle.

He then launches into a story about all the new paperwork needed to procure shoddy protective masks during a supply shortage last year.

His brand of rebellious defiance hasn’t faded with age.

Later, stuffed full of mamaliga and nostalgia, I step out onto the creaky balcony. The inky night sky glitters above, familiar stars winking through the haze of street lamps.

I think of all the times I’ve looked up at these same constellations over the course of my life — as a wide-eyed child, a brooding teen, a discouraged nurse.

They stayed constant, even as my life changed.

But my roots always remain, patiently waiting to be rediscovered whenever I need them. This hard soil still grows resilient souls who can weather harsh seasons.

I started to remember who I am again.

I knew these 2 weeks would fly by.

I aimed to savor every moment.