Dear Airport.

We meet again.

You know I love you. I can’t deny it.

I love your people and your staff and your shops.

I love it when you’re bustling. Then again when you’re still.

You’ve got some crazy patrons—wound up over their flights. For some the tension is exerted by straight up running. Scarves fly in the air behind them as, with bags in arms and shoes still off from security, they book it with all of their might to get to the gate before the dreaded words scroll across the check-in counter—door closed. They exclaim some words I feel should be left to Jack Bauer when his plans to save the world are yet again thwarted, but hey, this is their crisis. And for some, apparently, the end of their world.

Good news, folks. There are helpful people who, get this, are paid to help a sister out.

Yes, airport, I do love you.

Still, others release their tension once at the gate in the form of very harsh words with said paid help. “The security line held me up!” “This isn’t my fault” “I WILL expect compensation.” I think some people live with their panties in a wad.

And yet. There is love. I sit here, airport, and observe your baggage claim area. Where people are reunited with their belongings (well, okay, some people have a few choice words with the claims department) and their peeps. It’s even cool to watch the professional exchange of businessmen and dudes who have made the scronniest, though I guess manly, signs bearing names of men they’ve never before met and, after today, will most likely never meet again. There are daddies and little girls and husbands and wives and servicemen and little ol’ ladies that everyone tries to find a balance between respect of an elder and wanting nothing more than to get around her. Then you see that her husband is being wheeled behind her by yet another helpful employee and it gets you thinking that this is probably their last holiday season to travel. Maybe their kids will visit them next year. Or maybe they won’t last that long. Morbid, okay. But true. And real.

Peoples’ colors come out at an airport. It's reality.

And so. I love you.

Even on this day when our meeting implies a journey back to a place I do not care to be, really. That place is not Fredericksburg or hanging with friends or in the will of God. I love those places. But this place I do not care to be is more of a time span. Two weeks. Of papers and tests and, dare I say it, stress. Yes, it is truly inevitable, the stress. I do not care for that.

Still, not only does stress intensify, but so does the joy. The love shared between friends is at it’s greatest when it comes down to the wire. Almost like at an airport. You’ve got the mad man at the counter but you also have a little girl hugging her daddies’ neck. It depends on what you’re looking for at any given time.

So, Airport, you’ve brought me here and taught me a lesson and I love you, once more, for it.

I will see you again in two weeks.

Scratch that. 13 days. If Kennedy can deal with a missile crisis with Cuba in that amount of time, I can write a few papers and take a few tests, right?

Right. I best get to steppin'

With love,

Sadie