I'm exhausted of the Departure ramp at the airport. There is this place where the cement barrier wall curves outside and then back to the left, and it has some sort of clinging vine that covers it. This morning when I left Camille at curbside check-in and was hustled on with a curt wave from a nasty tempered traffic officer, I realized that I'm always choked up as I make this slight turn on the ramp just past the Terminal. Not quite crying but trying to swallow around a huge lump in my throat, and with blinking hot eyes. What a metaphor these vines have become. I've watched them through every season. Gray-brown vines, sprouting new life in the Spring; Rich and hearty shining thick green leaves in Summer; Vibrant blasting reds and golds in Autumn; and today, the empty gray-brown vines of Winter, twisting and turning, clinging, hung heavy with an inch of new fallen snow. I'd like to think that the developer put this plant here with intention. The intention that those who are seeing it are holding on.
I guess, bottom line, this exhaustion speaks only of love. I have never made this turn on this ramp with the thought that I was glad that someone was leaving. Always the opposite. A huge, gaping void where they had just been one minute before. My car still holding the scent of their perfume or the lingering flavor of their chewing gum in the air around me. And I think this is simply because we love. Because we laugh, and have fun, and trust one another. It's not always perfect, but when we lay down to sleep at night we know that there is trust and abiding love. No one's ever going to go away for good. No fear of abandonment. We go to sleep knowing, wherever we are lying our heads down to sleep, that we can go home again.
So I guess what I am saying is this outside curve where heartbreak happens, where the clinging vines grow, is a good place.
Good-bye Camillie. See you soon.