Beauty in the Breakdown

I am tired. Tired deep. Tired.

But my heart is light.

This weekend was madness. From the moment I locked the office door Friday afternoon to the moment I unlocked it this morning.

At the airport on Sunday, we walked out from the underground parking and there was a Fir tree swarmed with small black birds. Each one singing some story to the dusk sky. I have never seen anything like that. Tree limbs heavy with song. It was in such stark contrast to the steel and glass of the Domestic Arrivals façade. A camera would never do it justice, only the sound of them singing, loud and exuberant.

I love airports.

The people watching. The good clothes and shoes. The bad hair. The flowers. Coffee in paper cups. Small luxuries, new books, glossy magazine covers. The lovers. The kissing, the hugs. The small happiness, the loud hello’s. The tired eyes and the hidden stories. The individual histories unfolding. We are witness to life here. Take the woman dressed in black leaning against the pole. Waiting for luggage, alone. Or the young lover who carried the most beautiful bunch of pink flowers. Not the cheap ones they sell downstairs, but something that took thought and preparation. And how he could not keep his hands or lips off of her, how she smiled at him with such openness.

I wonder if I wear that face when I see Jeff. (My heart surely does when I walk in the door.)

And the black man who caught my eyes and said hello. Or the way, even tired, we are gentle with one another. We share something, this mass of humanity. We share in some common joy, the arrival gate.

The birds just reminded me of why I love the airport. The surprises. The pleasures of strange people and how we are all attached in one way or another. Sitting on the limbs of our existence.



G.