Once upon an airport

Originally posted Thursday, August 21, 2008

Once upon an airport
(Editor's note: This happened almost a year ago in November of 2007. I have waited until now to post because I wanted to write about it when the time was right and the words came to me. I realize now that no words will ever do justice to that moment. But the story should be told)

The flight was delayed, twice. I sat in the Saint Louis airport watching the world go by. Fragments of lives in motion. Glass reflecting the arrivals and departures. Rolling suitcases clicked along the floor, high heels and tennis shoes, flip flops all merging together. Was that oregano I smelled? I leaned back and crossed my legs, pushed up the volume of my ipod. I was connected to it all and yet separate.Gladys Knight sang about leaving on that midnight train, as he started to walk down the long, carpeted hallway toward the terminals. Boots shined and laced, grimacing, carrying only a small camouflage bag and what looked like the weight of a million lives on his shoulders. The bald man saluted, awkwardly but respectfully. The woman knelt down by her child and pointed. A hero in person. He sat two seats down, dropped his bag. Thud. And leaned forward. Elbows on knees, head in hands. I turned the volume down. Coldplay whispers now, as time goes by suddenly, "oh why?"another blink of the eye...He looks up, turns his head to me. Smiling with my eyes, my mouth follows. I think I question him in my head and he answers.It's been rough. I'm sorry, I say.I take the ipod off, and introduce myself. He shakes my hand firmly and there is something in his eyes. Like shattered glass. I see him in shards as he begins to talk. The family he just left at home. An impending divorce. The tiny hands of his daughter on his broad shoulders as he pulled her away from him. I love you baby. I'll be back soon. I promise. It's the weight of that promise I feel. He moves over one chair. I tuck my legs underneath me, pull my sweater around my shoulders against the chill of his words.I'm on my second tour. I have a unit of men counting on me. I have to be strong. When I got my first kill I had blood on my hands. Another man's blood. On the same hands that love my wife, and hold my daughter. I reach out and touch his shoulder.I feel responsible for the lives I'm supposed to take, and the lives I am sworn to protect. How do I choose whose life is more valuable? It is a question I have no answer for. I look in his eyes. A man in a business suit walks up. He's sorry to interrupt and shifts his briefcase to his left hand. He tells my soldier that he's proud of him. That he's an American hero. Wishes him a safe and speedy return. And walks away.That always happens. My soldier looks deflated, fragile, and still ready for war, his uniform neatly pressed, his legs never stop moving.People come up to me all the time. They want pictures. They tell me how proud they are of me. I'm their hero. I smile, because I have to. I'm no one's hero. I left my wife alone too long. I lost her. I missed my daughter's first steps and first words. I can't talk to my friends anymore. They never threw a live grenade and watched it destroy everything in it's wake. The night is deep outside the windows. Almost purple. It's quieter now. We lean close and whisper.Where are you headed? I ask him. My soldier.Fallujah. I have to admit, I don't know exactly where that is. I blush immediately. My American ignorance must frustrate him.But it doesn't. He pulls from his bag a small, neatly folded map of Iraq, points out the important cities, where he's been, where he is going.How long will you be gone? I don't know this time. Maybe 15 months. What do I have to come back to? The storm kicks up outside. Wind throws rain against the window. He goes for coffee. Brings me a chocolate bar. How did he know? My favorite kind.Speaking for the first time about what he's told me, I hesitate, then continue..I heard once that courage is being afraid, but doing it anyway. I think it's more than that. I think courage is being totally aware of what you are doing. It's that realization that this is going to hurt. And then absorbing the pain deep into yourself. We talk deep into the evening. The lights of planes blink in the distance, far beyond the steam of his coffee cup, the dull ring of my cell phone that I shut off. There will be time for that later. Now? Now I'm with my soldier.When they announce that my plane is boarding I unfold my legs, embrace him, feeling the strength of his back. I hand him my card.Call me, or write. I say.I will. I promise. Listen... I want to thank you. I hold up my hand.You don't have to. Just know, when you're over there, I'll be over here thinking of you and praying for your safety. I leave, making my way to the terminal. As I hand my boarding pass to the flight attendant I turn to see him one more time. He's standing at the window, his back to me, arms crossed watching the planes come in. I say a prayer and board the plane.I never heard from my soldier again.