I don’t think parting is so bloody sweet. As my airport shuttle pulled away on this cold, bright day, I waved at my small, door-framed mother until she was only a teeny pinepoint, as my father once said. My driver was a compact pistol of a woman about my age, with hair dyed as black as an old bluegrass star’s. By the time we pulled up to the airport, we were talking about IUDs.
For fifteen minutes I stalked Terminal C in search of a toasted bagel with cream cheese. I finally found a vendor, waited in line for ten minutes, placed my order, paid for it, and walked away to my gate. Without my bagel.
By cell phone I checked in with Katie, who reported that she’d made it through the night without falling on her butt. She did, however, topple out of her wheeled office chair, on account of overreaching.
I settled into my aisle bulkhead seat, which I’d secured by getting up at 4:30 a.m. and fighting with the Internet for 45 minutes, and we were about to leave the gate when things like a missing pilot delayed our flight for two-and-a-half hours. Luckily they let us off the plane. I found an electrical outlet and started working on this:
[flashvideo filename=wp-content/video/santa.flv image=wp-content/video/santa.jpg /]
For the next six hours I sat next to a talkative 81-year-old who was oblivious to my diversionary tactics. I opened up a book. She said, “What are you reading?” I turned off my light and covered my face with my shawl. “Oh, are you taking a nap now?”
[Art by none other than Mark Bulwinkle]
Your choice of background music seemed perfect on the video. Somehow I found your description of your mother in the doorway touching. I have not seen nor heard from my own mother in 40 years now. I do remember leaving home for the last time. She was the last member of my family I saw for many, many years. Framed by a doorway, she pleaded, “But, what will you do? How will you live?” I did not know then and I still do not know. The way it was and the way it is. Something will happen. It always does. MB