I quite like airports. Not because I’m a mad plane spotter; because I think they’re home to a lot of magic.
It’s the place where people meet, say goodbye, create memories, experience things for the first time, or the last time. It’s a place of transition, where people cross over from one place to the next. Are they coming? Or going? Or starting afresh?
Hubby has worked at airports ever since I’ve known him. His eyes aren’t fresh to the magic. He sees it almost everyday. The tears, the embraces, the excitement and the sadness. He’s immune to the emotion of it all.
As much as I like airports, I like to observe people. I like to think I’m some sort of detective-type person filling in the gaps. Oh, they’re off on a honeymoon, I think to myself, what a cute newlywed couple. I’m probably just nosy.
The other weekend Hubby, Lacey and I went to a bird show {not my idea, clearly} and a couple sat right behind us. He had a thick American accent and white shoes, she was an Australian. As we waited for the birds to take flight, they talked loud enough that it was impossible to miss their conversation. When the show had been and gone, and I’d lost 6 years off my life from the fear of the birds, we got up and walked on. Hubby and I looked at each other, “Internet couple,” we said in unison. Gaps filled.
On my way to Sydney on Friday, we {Hubby, Lacey and I} sat at a table waiting for our turn to board the plane. The clouds grew heavy, the rain rolled in and visibility became poor. We got up from our seats ready to move to the gate, and an elderly man started talking to me, “Can you see my plane?”
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Sydney. This is only the second time I’ve flown.”
I told him that I thought I was on a different flight to him, and that I was sure that the plane would be there soon. He sat by himself, happy with a sense of nervousness about him.
“What are you doing in Sydney?” I queried.
He told me that he was going south to catch up with mates. And the rest of the story rolled off his tongue without emotion or worry. I didn’t need to fill in the gaps. He did it for me. “I’m dying and I want to see my mates for the last time.”
“You look healthy and happy to me,” I tried to stay upbeat, but inside my heart was breaking.
“I’ve just got cancers.”
Just.
Not one, but two. Two types of cancer.
He told me he didn’t want any treatment. I could see Hubby and Lacey waiting for me in the distance, and I continued listening. He told me where he worked, how he met his mates and why he moved up the Coast.
“You have the best time ever with those boys. And behave!” I smirked.
He laughed and looked back out at the tarmac, searching for his plane.
It’s been 18 months since my father-in-law died, and I see him in almost every grey-haired man I see. I know he wasn’t my own father, but I loved him like he was. I wonder how he’d live his life if he knew he didn’t have much time, instead of the way he unexpectedly departed without much warning. I’m sure it’d by with the same strength and humility as the man waiting for his plane.
We miss him so much, and for the most part I’m mad that he’s not here. He should be. To see the stuff we’re doing. To be part of it. To play with us. To see Lacey grow. To be near us. To meet our puppy. I want for the stupid, small things. I want to show him our Christmas lights, and have a beer with him on the front deck. Go to the beach. Hear his stories again, and again. Just normal stuff.
If there’s one thing I’ve learnt over the past 18 months, it’s that life is short. And not in a morbid way, but in a wonderful ‘let’s make the most of it’ way. The man at the airport had saved his last flight to the end of his life, and his last play with his mates ’til he knew he had no time left. There’s a lesson in that. Play now. Don’t wait for the plane or the diagnosis. Just get on the plane and do it now.
On Saturday night one of my favourite kids’ movies was on TV, Mr. Margorium’s Wonder Emporium. This scene always makes me sob:
Mr. Edward Magorium: [to Molly, about dying] When King Lear dies in Act V, do you know what Shakespeare has written? He’s written “He dies.” That’s all, nothing more. No fanfare, no metaphor, no brilliant final words. The culmination of the most influential work of dramatic literature is “He dies.” It takes Shakespeare, a genius, to come up with “He dies.” And yet every time I read those two words, I find myself overwhelmed with dysphoria. And I know it’s only natural to be sad, but not because of the words “He dies.” but because of the life we saw prior to the words.
Mr. Edward Magorium: I’ve lived all five of my acts, Mahoney, and I am not asking you to be happy that I must go. I’m only asking that you turn the page, continue reading… and let the next story begin. And if anyone asks what became of me, you relate my life in all its wonder, and end it with a simple and modest “He died.”
Molly Mahoney: [starting to sob] I love you.
Mr. Edward Magorium: I love you, too.
Mr. Edward Magorium: Your life is an occasion. Rise to it.
Amazing things happen in kids movies. And at airports. Always at airports.
photo credit: ontourwithben via photopin cc
