In airports, there seems to me to be a spirit such as the one existent in many places immediately after September 11th 2001 (NOW, FIRST, Wait; allow me to explain): everyone seemed to try to be courteous, helpful, a little understanding of others.
Perhaps, right now, I am just am noticing more things like this -just loving people, everyone around (for a reason: why I am travelling now).
People’s collective behavior could be otherwise; mean, nasty. But, gladly, it is not.
And it is this way in all the airports ‘round the nation you find yourself at due to layover, if you look for it.
Although when travelling, the first words ready to fall out of my mouth are always, “oh- f”ck me,” quietly spoken at any slightest surprise or inconvenience. It’s habit, I guess (I feel there may be need to explain that the use of that phrase in this way carries no sexual meaning: it stems from, I think, the movie Superbad wherein Jonah Hill’s character is searching or trying to do something, and when encountering people who are suspicious or bothered, he responds in a way to mean, “oh yeah, I’m all wrong here” by saying to them, “oh, yes- f*ck ME, right?”).
Later I had a thought, once I boarded the plane from this airport: a couple was figuring out that their seats were rows back from where they had to place their carry-on bags in the overhead compartments. This seemed to worry them as they would not have easy access to all of their things once they were seated. My thought was, “what if they asked me to hold it under my seat area so I could hand it to them behind me?” But I realized because I am on a plane -where people have notoriously (and sadly) brought, placed bad things meaning to do harm- that I would have to refuse.
This completed the counterpart of a thought I had pondered some days or weeks prior, namely that if one was a politician voting on some bill or law, in the case of good, better, or best (or the various shades of grey that everything thing in the world is when people go about trying to the best they can in the present, and not knowing all things…); one never knows what they would or will actually do if or once they hold a position of power or authority… and usually can and do surprise both themselves and others with a decision they make on any issue that touches on a charged issue.
So, the two together are these:
- Putting a stranger’s carry-on under your seat on a plane = may Want To (help), but Won’t Do It.
- Voting = not want to (or, not agree completely) but Do It.
Examples of the latter point are admittedly harder to lay out, so I won’t here.
We took off. A minute later, while still in necessary ascending, turbulence hit hard and before I can think, I whisper,”oh, f*ck me-“. Now, back to Airport layover before take-off…
***
I sit beside two people (me on the corner of bar-seating, these other 2 at the first two spots around the corner on my right side. I want to say they both happen to be matching colours of their sweater and blazer, respectively; but that only as a soft opening so I can ask the man what company or service made his jacket. It looks so light as to be manufactured like a suit coat but without the interior or with it removed.
The other person, a woman, continues a video call related to some “clients” and “vendors.” But she ordered a pomegranate mule, was corrected by the server who said that only cranberry (flavor? Juice? Liqueur?) is available for that, but this companion-customer didn’t mind, cheerfully. I thought to say, in jest, that if the server doesn’t bring it (at least) in the customary cup for the drink Moscow Mule (a brass one) that she should accordingly toss it back or swipe it off the countertop immediately, in rejection.
This joke is meant to be a contrast of not caring about the contents of the cup, but the cup itself as an aspect of the thing, the concept, and to such an extreme as to be clearly silly -As if…
I sat here absent-mindedly calculating what number of days (minding leap years) would place me at achieving 15,000 days of life (which was sometime in 2028 when I will be 41). I had settled on 15,000 days as a mid-point of life expected because I am here unexpectedly travelling because my dad is not doing well…I fear to put into written words what is expected… Maybe not speaking it will avoid bad luck or bad fortune… I had first done math that showed that 82 years -which he will (or would) reach in a number of weeks would equal 29,900-ish days (I did not account for leap years’ extra days in this total), so, rounding to 30,000 for whole, that had given me 15,000 as the half-point. And then I saw where (what) that would take (leave) me.
With a chance glance, while staring while thinking while pausing from writing, I see…They did serve her drink in the proper cup, and, at the very moment, asked if she wanted another. She said yes, and promptly received it.
I didn’t ask the guy his jacket-brand: I probably wouldn’t wear it. But it is a great colour.
***
I’ll add: I feel as if certain cultures or traditions -and I could be wrong- don’t equip or furnish people with appropriate or better ways to mourn. Some (few) of my family greeted me when I arrived as if they were happy to see me, and it was jarring to me, as if one couldn’t even tell that what was going on was indeed going on…
No blame to them: everyone handles these things differently and some people break down or show emotions once the passing of the person has actually occurred
Unserious thoughts: people do, after passing, still seem to have a “good side” and “bad” when one views the deceased in profile. Now that I write this, I realize, of course, that they, being the exact same person…that this of course would be the case. And I am left with just surprise to wonder about why and how this fact was so surprising to me.
I picked up a book on a shelf about grieving and it said,
“Hold onto what is good, even if it is a handful of dirt.
Hold onto my hand, even if I have gone away from you,”
and this strikes me in a few ways: namely that the first part could be heard as a slightly -veiled, wry way to say that when you suffer loss, those around you that you may have strong quarrels or disagreements with, well, they are those still around you, those still on your side of living; and you can be sure, probably, that they are feeling the loss like you are. And at least for now -maybe forever- you can just not talk of those other things. If I can be dark, I’d say we are all going to leave eventually. And won’t be able to fight or remember things.
As I was with Dad, I said what others wanted him to know and things that I was happy for, sad for, thankful for, sorry for, and that he had done a good job.
It may not make sense, but, after I communicated personal things to Dad -and he did react in some ways that made me think he did, most probably, know I was there, heard what I said- but after all, and the nurse verified pulse ceased, I had a few minutes last of all to be alone again, and I touched his chest, I touched his forehead lightly a moment, I was searching for what else is appropriate to do or what I should do. I made a sign of cross over his head. And last of all it came to me to do something which made sense. I said in his ear the same words that were the first words I whispered in Aldan (my first son)’s ear when he was born.
I can understand if the reaction may be of incomprehension. But to that I can only ask, “well, what’s better? What would be worse?”
***
I shared the following with my family the day after:
Today I heard part of a song I have known for a while, but part of it says,
“-And when papa’s gone
He will never be gone
Because the sound of our sneeze is the same.”
Almost 1 year ago exactly I took 30 days of leave between a school in San Diego and reporting to Lemoore where I am now.
At that time I was around sweet home about a week. I got to spend time with Dad probably more than a whole day.
Now, of course, I am very glad that happened.
He showed me an old movie where a navy ship gets sucked through a portal in time to the past.
He told me stories from his life that I have heard before but they were still good in the retelling. I told him he should record them by voice and then I would transcribe them or even software programs now could do it. I encourage him to do that. As far as I know it never happened. And that’s too bad.
Now today I got to be with Aldan and Rainer a bit.
I told them my dad has passed away. And they said, “hm. Ok.” And were sympathetic. —only 5 minutes later to ask me, “…so, he *really* died?”
I guess it hadn’t registered completely.
But I said yes, and Rainer said he was sorry, and I saw Aldan talking quietly, and I tried to see in the rear-view mirror, and asked him, “you ok?” And he was wiping his eyes and he said “just…sometimes stuff gets in my eyes.”
And Rainer expressed that he wants to go to the “memorial” (how he knows such a word, I don’t know).
And he wants to see all of the family with me.
They also asked, pretty immediately, how old my dad had been -and then, ever quicker, followed with asking how old I am. I know them, so –remember back to when I mentioned I had sitting in the airport calculating days of an average lifetime – I think I can say that I what they were doing: worrying, and calculating how longer I, their dad, have before I may not be there for them one day—After I stated my current age, they seemed calm by it: how many years I must gain in order to be as old.
Now I am eating a slice of strawberry-rhubarb pie (which is great). I don’t know if that was a favorite of dad’s, but I do remember distinctly having this dish the first (and maybe only other) time until now. And it always stuck in my memory as linked to dad. We grew, among other things, strawberries and rhubarb in the garden that year which became the first of that distinct kind of pie that I tried.
The IDIOTRIX 