Airport reunion: My small boy and his dad

On Wednesday,

My small boy’s

Father

Flew into town for the

Boy’s spring break.

The dad and his boy,

They hadn’t seen each other since

July.

It’s our life,

Shared and separate:

One of us,

His father,

Who lives in Finland,

Or me,

Is always living through

Days and weeks and months of

Our son’s absence:

Walking past a

Quiet,

Shadowy

Bedroom,

Toys neatly in their boxes,

Bed smooth with laundered sheets;

Twisting open the blinds to

Let light in,

And then closing them again at the

End of one more day

Ticked off the calendar.

Incredibly,

A season will pass,

Or even two:

A melting or a shedding of leaves,

Moons.

And then:

The airport.

On Wednesday,

I had taken off work early and

Arranged to pick the boy up from school

When we learned the plane would be late.

So we scurried around town a bit,

Holding hands to run across streets and

Jump over puddles,

And arrived at the airport at

10 p.m.

Late for a small boy

And for me.

Strung out on

Anticipation,

Time-killing errands and

Fluorescent lighting,

We waited,

Watching travelers descend an escalator behind the

Sliding glass doors of the airport’s

Secure zone.

Victor scampering around on feet and hands like a monkey,

His dad,

To be sure,

Striding down the wide, carpeted

Terminal corridors toward us.

Not allowing himself to jog

After months of disciplined pacing,

You can’t lose your rhythm on the

Last leg of the journey.

And then,

There he was:

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