Saying goodbye to
loved ones who live halfway around the world from you is not easy. In fact,
it’s incredibly painful. On one hand, you’re full from the memories you created
and the love you shared, but on the other hand you’re eager to get back into
your own routine again. But when you don’t know when you’ll see those people
again, and when it takes about 24 hours to get to them via one long 11-hour
flight, the grief can almost be too much to bear. And it can make a person feel just how far away they actually are and that sucks. The loneliness sucks.
I found myself
feeling all of that and more yesterday, as my parents left for America after a
five-week visit. I’m still struggling a bit today, but only because there’s no
one here to help me do the dishes (they were so fast at doing those dishes!).
But the time had come to an end so we loaded up
the car with their bags and were on our way. Trust me, I drove as slowly as I
could tempting them with “one last toe dip in the ocean?” or “just a quick
touch of the golden sand?” but they were satisfied.
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| Hello, Smaug |
My son loves the
airport with the ginormous eagles, Gollum, and Smaug sculptures provided by Weta workshop. Walking to their gate, my boy was racing ahead of us shouting excitedly at
everything in his path, and I was dragging my feet as I felt the tears wet my
eyes.
Not wanting to linger with the goodbye too much, we hugged; knowing
everything we wanted to say to one another had been said at the house.We watched them go
through security easily, with no line, all very laid back with smiles mirroring the
joy that was gained from the visit.
A very active
toddler, my boy was wiggling about in my arms and is much too big for me to
carry around. But in order to keep him from hopping on the plane with them, I chose to hold him. He wiggled and spoke in his soft, chipmunk voice, “goodbye
grandma and grandpa”, waved one last time and we began to walk away from gate
eleven.
With heaviness in
my heart at the thought of missing them and the physical heaviness in my arms
with this big boy, I stepped off to the side of the hall to compose myself. I set
him on a chair behind glass that separated us from the departure lounge but still allows you to see the parked planes. As he rattled off the letters written on the
side of the airplane, I spotted a man sitting a few seats over, in the same
area as us.
It was Joe. I was
sure of it.
Reddish-blond
hair, goatee, pale skin, deep-set eyes, glasses… Could it be that
I’ve found Joe Wellington at the airport?
Trying to keep one
eye on my boy and one on the possible-Joe, my parents then came around the
other side of the glass from their departure lounge and gave us one last wave
with air kisses. A lovely gesture, I waved to them again, but glanced back at
possible-Joe. It had to be him. I
looked back at my parents, still waving and still blowing kisses. Preoccupied, I could not stop silently rehearsing what to say to this possible-Joe. Back
and forth, I looked to my parents, then to my boy, then to possible-Joe.
I had to ask if he
was my old friend. I couldn’t let the opportunity
pass me by.
I envisioned what
I would do if it turned out to be him: I would probably yell at my
parents and pound on the glass, “I found him! It’s him! It’s Joe Wellington!” and
maybe I’d get a chance to ask if his surname is really ‘Wellington’ before
security would haul me away.
We waved our final
goodbye to my parents as I scooped my heavy boy into my arms. My eyes were completely
dry at this point as I was focused on one thing only: I may have possibly found Joe Wellington.
Shifting my son’s
weight to my left hip so I could speak with possible-Joe (apparently I think more clearly from my right hip?), I leaned toward him slightly as we were
about to turn the corner...
“Excuse me, does your name happen to be
Joe?”
Softly but with eye contact, he
replied, “No.”
“Ok then, thank
you. You looked familiar.”
“No worries,” he
said unaffected.
My boy and I slipped around the corner and walked slowly back to our car, the reality of why we were at the airport in the first place hitting us hard again. Our vacation time with grandma
and grandpa had come to an end. Driving away, I thought about my friend Joe
Wellington, out there somewhere, and how funny it would have been had that
possible-Joe been actual-Joe at a time like this.
As we watched
grandma and grandpa’s plane take off from a nearby park, the tears returned to
my eyes. I laughed at how distracted I was at the airport, how overwhelmed with
emotion I had been earlier in the day but how not one tear fell from my eye at
the gate.
So my search for
Joe Wellington continues. And in the
meantime, thanks for distracting me enough that the goodbye wasn’t as sad as it
could have been. I managed to hold off crying until getting to the car.
Maybe I’m not
supposed to find Joe Wellington right now… but maybe I’m just supposed to keep
looking.
