The Airport

I picked up Ma and Pa from the airport yesterday. They were gadding about the country visiting uncles and aunts and children and grandchildren.

I was stuck at home but I didn't mind. Mostly.

I believe very firmly in meeting people when they come off of planes. Particularly when they are flying with a three-month old grandchild in tow. The first thing Ma did when she saw me was pass him off. He yawned luxuriously, stretched his tiny arms above his head, and opened his eyes to blink at me. He grinned and gabbed a few baby words before yawning again and tucking his head into my shoulder. You understand why I insist on meeting people in the airport?

Before I met them, but after I parked the car, I had the pleasure of walking into the airport. There's almost nothing I love more than walking into an airport. Even if I'm not going anywhere, like yesterday, my heart starts to beat a little faster, my step turns jaunty, and I can't help but smile. Airports are the place of beginnings and endings, the place of change and the place of returning to sameness. I may have just been picking up my parents, but I was surrounded by people who were off on adventures, even if they didn't know it, and my heart was filled with happy anticipation for them.

I found myself wishing, just the tiniest bit, that I was about to go off on my own adventure.

Until I saw my parents. Then I was very happy that their latest adventure was coming to an end and that I was there to end it with them.