Moments to Mom | September 26,2017
Tonight as I was sitting alone in the airport, I imagined what it would be like if you were there; sometimes the hardest part of missing you isn’t that I loved you, it’s that I liked you. Spending time with you was simple and easy; being around you was warmth. I don’t always allow myself to slip into this dream world — the “what-ifs” if you were here — but tonight I did.
We’d probably get salads. I’d tell you about my newest musical obsession Maggie Rogers, and I’m pretty sure you’d love ‘Alaska’ as much as me. We’d share ear buds and I’d play it over and over. You’d laugh at my mistake of buying a flight for 12:30AM, when I thought I bought it for the afternoon. You’d say we should treat ourselves and make the experience fun anyway. I’d give you a taste of my kombucha, and you’d probably love it. You’d give me a bite of your chocolate — and then another, and another — until you decide we should probably just buy another.
We’d listen to Maggie Rogers again, heads together, each sharing one ear of the ear bud. I can still feel you’re curly and frizzy hair against mine. I can still smell the earthy oil of your hair. You’d request the pop version of Alaska — not the acoustic version, because that one is harder to dance to — and would tell me to use my kombucha bottle as a microphone as you’d pull out a hairbrush from your purse to use as yours and we’d have a mini dance party in the middle of the airport. People’d pass by and giggle, others would look confused because they couldn’t hear they music. You’d invite the former to join and smile warmly at the latter because they hadn’t yet learned you don’t really need music at all to dance.
We’d hear our flight being announced and we’d rush to the gate only to wait, as one often does when trying to board. You’d make friends with those around you, breaking through the walls we often put up in places like this where people are so focused on just getting from point A to B. You’d probably discover the person you’re talking to is a friend of a friend or works with someone you know. The world was always smaller with you, but in a good way. In a way that taught me strangers are just friends I haven’t met, and connection is there for those who seek it. I’d smirk and think “there she goes again,” not fully realizing the beauty of this gift you had of making friends until it was not longer there for me to witness. You’d finish up your conversation and we’d find our seats — but not before exchanging emails with your new friend.
We’d arrive at our seats and you’d offer me the window, even though you have a bad back. I’d tell you I was fine in the middle as long as I could lean on you. The mother in you would try not to show too much excitement about it, but that same mother who birthed me would delight in the thought of having my head return to your chest, as it had done so many years before. You’d take off your scarf and use it as a pillow as I nestled into you. You’d say “slumber party!” right before closing your eyes. And we’d fall asleep having made the best of a flight where your daughter, Morgan, booked a flight for midnight when she meant it for a Tuesday afternoon.
