There’s something about airports, especially the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. The whole world, it seems, passes through those gateways, all with a destination to meet or being the destination being met.
The scream wasn’t really a scream; it was more a shriek. Each decibel must have been a measure of the time of their separation. She had been standing at the place where arriving passengers first appear as the enforcers of airport security would allow. Like an energizer bunny she kept time with the march of her anxiety with the up and down bouncing of her body. She saw him; the scream commenced; she propelled herself toward him and he was enveloped by her arms as tears drenched four cheeks.
He sat in a seat near the window overlooking the jets being prepared. A notebook computer was in his lap; plugged into the computer was a Verizon internet connection driver; he punched the keys with the index finger of his right hand as he spoke into the cell phone held to his ear by his left hand. He spoke first in Spanish. Then he spoke in French. Then he spoke in English. I speak a smidgen of Spanish; I only know how to say three phrases in French and two of them I can’t write here; but I do speak English. The Spanish and the French participants in the conversation were about to get fired if they didn’t get something straightened out.
She had a certain air of confidence about her. She looked to be in her mid-forties, dressed in a nicely tailored business suit accented with a floral scarf tied bandana style around her neck. She approached the agent at the departure gate and said to him in a voice that commanded attention. “I’m going down to that restaurant to grab a bite to eat. Tell the pilots if I’m not back when they’re ready I’ll be here shortly.” She left before the agent could comply.
A young lady in her late teens or early twenties stood somewhat apart from the others with a quiet demeanor that reflected assurance. Her choice of clothing was obviously not dictated by fashion but the directive of the United States Secretary of the Navy. Her dress whites were gleaming; her shoes were spit shine bright; her arm displayed the stripes of a E-3 Naval Airman; her auburn hair was drawn back in a bun; her naval hat held in her hand. None of it could disguise her beauty.
There were four of them, mother, father, three-and-a-half year old son and infant. The three-year-old pulled his own appropriately sized bag on wheels behind him. They boarded single file. “You go first,” said the mother to the three-year-old. You be the leader.” He did for about twenty feet down the aisle, then, he turned, “I don’t want to be the leader anymore.”
The young woman in her whites sat in the seat across from the parson, but not before she carefully pulled her uniform in such a way as to minimize the possibility of causing a wrinkle. She sat militarily rigid and upright.
The wheels left the ground. The plane headed to Salt Lake City. Before the landing, the parson spoke to her. Her name’s Natasha. She’d just graduated from Aviation Technology School in Pensacola and was heading home to visit her folks before going to her duty station in Norfork.
Everyone departed the plane in an orderly fashion in Salt Lake City. The three-year-old followed his mother, still not ready to lead. The parson followed Natasha. She is.
Glad you are back.
Posted by: Larry | October 11, 2010 at 09:14 PM
Welcome Back.............
i love the snatched glimpses as you pass through life
Posted by: MMP | October 13, 2010 at 03:46 PM