“Yo ma! Super busy work day, so pickup may be a little later, around 5 or so!”
The text reached me at 35,000 feet, seat 9D, somewhere between IAD and DEN: the most meaningful airport codes in my memorized list. One, home. The other, history: ski trips, work trips, my first destination on an airplane at age eight.
“No worries dude! I’ll keep myself busy when I land in Denver. You’re a working stiff, you focus on your business!”
After touching down, I wandered my favorite haunts: the Tattered Cover bookstore, the scene of many a brain-expanding purchase to while away a four hour flight. The B concourse, passing by gate signs for connections from adventures past: Eagle/Vail, Seattle, Munich. Jamba Juice, where I grabbed my ritual green apple smoothie, a futile hedge against the caloric cost of airport life.
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Next, I descended the double-decker escalators and stepped aboard the underground tram, grabbing the hanging strap like a local. My body already knew the choreography: stand to the right of the double doors, be first to the escalators, leave the amateurs in your wake.
I popped out at the top, rounding the bend into United baggage claim… and blinked. That’swhen I saw it: a shimmering hologram of Mike chasing our pint-sized kids around the carousel, both of them shrieking with laughter as he caught them, fake-squishing them while holding the push-up position.
This exact spot. That exact chaos. Those exact sounds. My body remembering before my brain caught up.
Then the hologram flickered out. The baggage carousel spun empty. Just me standing there, watching the space where they’d been.
The phone in my hand buzzed with an incoming text from Connor: “Headed your way, ma! Lemme know where to meet you!”
I’d taken an uber, the giant yellow Hertz rental car shuttle, the occasional limo in my flush corporate days. But I’d never been a regular passenger getting a regular pickup on a regular Friday at the Denver airport. So I studied the hieroglyphic signage to figure out where the hell to tell my kid to find me.
“I’m on the west side, and I’m seeing this sign for passenger pickup. It says level 4.”
“Ok, got it. I will see you on level 4 West soon!”
I boarded the elevator with a family of five, their two luggage carts, and one quivering dog in a kennel. I slid my hand forward as the door opened, holding it while they shuffle-stepped through an awkward exit.
Then I stepped out. And nearly stepped back in.
The carpet. Why am I losing my breath at the sight of this industrial gray carpet, irregular patches worn bear from millions of feet? Why are the black bench seats with their metal dividers making me feel like I just drank expired milk?
Then the memory rose like a wave and pulled me under: two toddlers, too much luggage, phone lost somewhere in the shuffle. Waiting here — literally right here — for Mike to bring the rental car around.
The swoosh of opening elevator doors, squeaky-wheeled trollies, cranky conversations, broke over me.
I blinked, then inhaled.
What time was it? How long had I been standing there?
I checked my phone. Connor was two minutes away.
“I’m at door 404,” I texted, turning away from the carpet and the fading memory. I stepped outside, the unexpected warmth of a Colorado January blanketing my skin, bringing my brain back online.
I picked an empty spot on the curb and turned toward the oncoming cars, crawling forward one by one — nope, nope, nope. Then my eye caught on a grime-covered Virginia license plate. I scanned upward and saw a handsome face: those cheekbones, that hair. Connor’s face with its echoes of Mike. Not a rental car, but the black Chevy that had left the treehouse in September.
Connor spotted me at the same moment I spotted him, pulled up at a sloppy diagonal, jumped out, came around the front, and wrapped me in a hug, bringing every part of me into to the here and now.
It’s good to be back,
Sue
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