First your father's yahrzeit candle, synagogue and then off to the airport. We are both grieving a little by now, though the origins are a generation off. It's colder already and undeserving D.C. hears the particular footfall that, recorded on my cell-phone as you call me from the wrong side of Virginia or is it Hampshire? makes your walk visible to me, clear back in Ohio. No one has your walk, Bird.
The airport, the airport, that bandit-handed place. Coffee and tea and thee and me and security--that double-edged term. So many lines. The carry-on baggage. The bottled water gone dangerous. An attempt to run it back to me and then The Man, the Long-Armed, No-Jokes Airport Man, says no way and with that, the water is forfeited and dear Bird, you are in flight and I am watching you even as the escalator lifts me up and the shuttle takes you off, and I am sad-some and suddenly thirsty.
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