Departure Lounge Grantley Adams

Her 7:45 flight is late, they just said. Arriving at 8:00, she thinks they said. She hates late flights. She rubs the back of her hand over her eyes and up her forehead trying to smooth out the crease she imagines is there. She’s sleepy. She looks down at her notebook wishing there was genius in her pen. But her muse is too far, dancing somewhere with her genie, leaving her alone in her despairing despair. If only she had a loom to weave like Creidhe, she thought, or a canvas and a needle to map out all four stories in threaded colours, bursts of joy, deep sadness, happiness and despair.

How do you ask a question on canvas, she wonders. How do you thread a question through the eye of a needle? How do you weave words that rise on the swell of an angry voice? Would you see if she showed you how she clutches at hope for their sake? Would you understand that she, of such unsteady faith, that she bows her head in supplice, begging some higher power to protect and guide these innocent souls. She had hopes that they would emerge from the fire of this journey unscathed. She is an idealistic one. No soul, not even the near perfect, walks this road safe from blisters.

And yet she cannot hate this thing called life. It remains beautiful to her, splendid, wonderful even. It is the acts of men that leave her aghast, lost, exceeded. Acts of folly, hurtful words and deeds that bring ruin and destruction. And yet, an inflection in tone, a simple fold at the corner of lip and eye, a word given in exchange for another, and ashes could birth phoenixes and river beds open their bellies to vomit streams of gold.
“Coward!” She breathes to herself. A cowering jelly form devoid of courage. Yet how can she hate you? Should she hate you? This seemed like a waste of energy, something she resented. And yet for a split second she cannot help herself. She does hate you. Not pure, undiluted. More like bitter, with the understanding that things would never change, hating you for it, understanding your acts of extreme cowardice, or at least trying to, but exceeded by the magnitude of it all.
She looks up, staring through the haze of strange faces to the deepening blue of the sky and the reflection of her past. How could you have been capable of such a thing? Horrible, horrible creature! Pathetic being! She knows that the tears filling her eyes and the quickening in her chest are for you also. You are not solely responsible for who you are. But what did you say when opportunity presented itself? For you? For her? For the others? Are you not tired of her singing this song to you?  Repetitive grating, accusing, cajoling, pleading, endless. Aren’t you? When will you open yourself to the song? When will you draw in colored crayons that bright exit door into the world? They could draw it themselves. But it will be so much harder without your help.
She is tired for you. But for them, until they can map their own course, she will never give up hope. That bright light burning will stay on. Because she needs them to know that the world is a beautiful place. That there is wonder around every corner. That everything is possible. That they have the power to make it possible. And she believes this with every fiber of her weeping being. She implores some higher power to protect these innocent souls.
The flight is delayed, says the crackling voice on the loudspeaker. Another announcement will be made at 9:30. She slips her hand into the pocket of her backpack and pulls out a pack of paper towels. Her desire to write has faded away replaced by a strange weakness that has crept into her limbs. She stands and swings her backpack over her shoulder. It’s probably a good time to look for breakfast.