A scene at the airport…
JUST IN CASE
“Just in Case. Take the umbrella.” Her mother stuffed the small red collapsible umbrella in the side pouch of her carry on and pushed her into the TSA security line. She didn’t need it. She could have dumped it into the trash can along with the dozens of water bottles that people had forgotten were in their bags but she didn’t. It would be cruel. Too pointed. Too direct. That wasn’t how they did things. Love was a collapsible red umbrella in her carry on. They didn’t do good bye speeches, tears in their eyes. They didn’t try to say everything right before they said goodbye. It wasn’t the way they did things. Their love was remembering at the last minute how to prevent the world falling on their beloved’s head. It wasn’t a steady beat of love, love, love every minute of every day. At the end of the security line, she looked back and found her mother’s face, still but searching, across all the machines x-raying our fear and vigilance. She reached into her carry on and pulled out the collapsible red umbrella, unsnapped the band and pressed the button which opened it above her head. She knew her mother could see her. She wasn’t lost in the crowd. She waved it gently above everyone. A red hand. A funny shaped balloon. Love. Just in case.