It’s a muggy, East Coast September afternoon, and the pandemic is pummeling the US. The airport is a ghost town. I arrive two hours before my flight home to Colorado. I stroll through the rows of closed shops and restaurants just behind the TSA line; the eyes of my fellow masked travelers reflect my own uncertainty.
I never would choose to fly across the country during the rage of COVID-19. However, my sweet little brother died—unexpectedly—two weeks previous. My brother’s death leaves me spinning and shattered. My time with family in Maryland speeds away.
Grief, joy, and nostalgia swirl in an internal tsunami. I know I can’t risk falling apart. I’m not ready to leave my family. Our hearts are beginning the cauterization process, and the pain is still raw. But I've already checked my bags. My saturated palms and acrobatic stomach beg for a reprieve, and I still have an hour to kill. So I walk outside to the passenger drop-off area.
I pull my muted phone out of my pocket. My notifications scream five missed calls and seventeen texts—each from a sibling. There’s an emergency issue with my Dad, and everyone sounds scared.
The beleaguered dam keeping my emotions in check explodes. Uncontrollable tears pour from my eyes. And I torrentially weep.
With my body shaking, I press my face against a concrete pillar. My Dad's woes are out of my control. I feel helpless. I know I can’t board like this.
I feel a sudden presence behind me. I turn and discover a thin, elderly airport employee. His security badge swings like a metronome, and he leans on his knees to slow his panting breath.
"I'm so sorry," he whispers through his mask. "I felt like I was supposed to come over and talk with you. I don't usually do things like this." He hangs at an acceptable distance and cocks his head with worry.
“Did you lose someone?” His words are halting. “I know those kinds of tears. I lost my wife suddenly last year. I felt so alone.”
He is out of his element, and I—averse to sharing with even those closest to me—am too. I pause but turn to face him and let it all pour out. I spill out the details of my brother's death, and I tell him about my Dad. I express how torn I am about leaving. He listens and sighs.
His eyes are a deep well of compassion. They balm my destroyed heart. We stand together, drinking in the moment.
He tells me I’m going to get on the plane. He says he senses I have people who will help me in each trembling step forward. His words buoy my strength. I dry my eyes, thank him, and board my flight.
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