Love & Arrivals

I love airports. Even those days when nothing seems to go right. Like when security swabs me down, and I get a bumpy ride in the middle of two old fat people. Not that I have anything against the old and fat of the world, but unfortunately the nature of who they are makes them not fun flight buddies.

There is a sadness that always hits me at the airport. No matter the circumstance, whether I'm at a layover, or I'm traveling alone to a foreign city- it always happens. The sadness hits regardless of how rational or irrational it may or may not be to be feeling it. 

When I walk out of the terminals and head towards baggage claim, and there is no one waiting for me at the arrival gate, I have to tell myself not to be sad. I say, “O stop, you didn’t even tell anyone your flight info” or “No one in this city knows you!” or “…maybe he’ll be waiting at home…”

            I think, you can tell how much some one loves you by their airport etiquette. Do they get of the car, wait in the parking lot? Are they waiting at the gate with the best view of the oncoming travelers? Are they even there at all? 

            My parents are always as close as they can possibly get. Waiting right at the opening to the arrivals. My mom’s beaming smile is the first thing I see as I approach the mass of strangers searching faces for love.

            Real love is standing at the arrivals doors with a cheesy smile on your face- because you want to. Real love is coming home to warmth, food, and someone who kisses you hello.  Real love does more then show up, it is just there. Real love lifts and shifts your consciousness making your head float like a moment of suspended animation that happens in elevators and airplane turbulence. That passing moment where it feels quite possible that your soul and body might just keep lifting and float ever so gently away from each other….