This man in the airport tells me his stories. I listen and the planes burst from the sky and sometimes I look out the massive windows and watch them. And sometimes I look at this man.
I meet people everywhere I go. My eyes are open and I must be a beacon.
Flash. Flash. Come to me. Here I am.
My husband is gone to the Duty-Free shop for hard liquor and the man tells me all about his adventurous holiday. His wife is shopping at Duty Free for creams and potions and perfumes.
He laughs and he is old, but his eyes are young.
Clear blue skies.
He asks me how I am and we sit under a giant wall of glass
and the planes comes and go and so I tell him.
I tell him all of the strange things. The goings on. My
secrets. The way my heart has been beating. The way the year unfolded. My
inside voice grows to a purr.
His blue eyes widen and he tells me I’m his favorite person in Mexico on this August day.
It is not a lie when I say the same to him.
We sit across from each other in a relaxed manner. The music in the background beats and little children scream and roller board luggage moves past us like a blur. Feet slap and pound the tile and people yell in Spanish over the loudspeaker. But for a moment everything is still and nothing is moving. And perhaps for the first time in the longest time I feel free.