Outbound Plane

I've always had a weird fascination with airports.  Even when I was younger, before I could drive, if I heard that anyone I knew was going to the airport, I secretly wished that I could follow along and see them off.  And then, after I turned 16, I would often drive to the airport, park my convertible up on the roof of the parking garage closest to the sky.  Sometimes I'd put up the top, sometimes not.  I would confidently make my way across the sometimes-busy street that divides the parking area from the main terminal there at TUL, holding my breath against all the environmental assault I could detect in the air.  I would swing those huge glass doors wide open, pretending my mother had sent me on an errand to pick up someone very important to her at the airport.  Of course, that was not the reason I was there.  

Mostly, I would visit the airport during long summers that afforded me the luxury of driving with the top down and then, on a really special night, I could smell the night-blooming flowers who, like me, only came alive after nightfall, after they were just sure the rest of the world was tucked into beds so that they could do their thing.  They appeared to wave to me as I passed by, with their delicate petals and pointed, planted existence, maybe jealous in their own way of me, but definitely joyous for me.  Maybe we WERE two separate entities, but, wildflowers and teenage girls have nothing and everything in common, after all.   

Whenever I arrived, I would immediately find a comfortable spot where I could see the people as they shuffled past.  I liked to watch people, notice the lines on faces and the way the corners of  mouths either pointed up or down.  I liked especially to sit outside the terminals nearest the International flights so that I could try and clue in to body language and posture and which people hung their heads, and make mental notes of how other cultures handle happiness, grief, loss, being apart, and then use what I had observed to contemplate it all on my drive back home.  All around me, people were hugging each other through the bulk of their winter coats or their summer tank tops, saying good-bye, wiping away tears.  I hate seeing people cry when they say good-bye.  "Don't go, then!"  I always wanted to say.  "Obviously you love each other!  So don't go!"  But of course they have to, and they do.  Every day.  Everywhere.  It's the ones who are left behind at the gate that I worry about, those with their hand pressed uselessly against a huge plate-glass window, watching, while outside engines roar so loud that no matter what you say, you can't be heard above them.