Aitch Balm

In which our Hero goes to bed in a house that’s just a little bit quieter than is its norm

My parents left tonight to go Home.

I took them to the airport and kept them company while we waited for it to be time to head into the departures area. And then they went through the gates and I smiled as my dad turned and looked for me, the way he’s always done through that gate for as far as my memory will go, and he waved. And I waved back. And he made that gesture, with his fingers, that bit of family code that said, “I’m good here, you don’t need to stick around for us. You go home now, and we’ll let you know if we need anything. Thanks. Don’t forget to water your mother’s plants.”

Okay maybe that last part less part of the gesture and more a Pavlovian response to my parents leaving but the rest of it is understood. Understood in blood and family and in timeworn tracks of recognition.

And he was right. Nominally I was being a good son and staying to be company for my parents while they waited for the plane, but honestly, I was there with a bag in hand to collect whatever fallout came of the great grudge match: My Mom vs Airport Security.

Last time, I tried to tell her “This won’t go” and “That won’t go” but my mother is confident in her crazy-old-lady charm and equally uncomprehending of the batshit crazy that is airport security theatre. Last time I came home with pockets full of large shampoo bottles and some kind of drink and oranges and a towel. (So far as I recall, I don’t think she was prevented from taking the towel, she just decided she didn’t want it in the course of taking out the other contraband the security guys wouldn’t allow)

This time, she’d spent the last few days asking me “Do you think they’ll let me take [apple/bag of chips/nuts/bottle of homemade fruit smoothie/blinking LED toy/bag] on the plane?” to the point that on the one hand, it was driving me crazy, and on the other hand, we were wearing matching grins as we agreed, “Only cost a few bucks, we’ll see what they say.”

This time, there was no fuss, no muss. My dad forgot to take off his shoes, I could see that, but other than that, clear sailing all the way. My little mother just doesn’t need me anymore. She’s leaving the nest. To fly Home.

Well, actually, that’s not true. She does need me. And my dad needs me. Both of them, to help herd my mother out of the house at a reasonable time. My mom complained about being early to the airport and I truthfully pointed out that we couldn’t leave later because we’d get caught in rush hour traffic which made the options all become “very early” or “very late.” The reality is that I left time in the schedule for “Corral my mother,” the fabulous home game of getting my mother to stop futzing with things in the kitchen, stop trying to feed me, stop opening and reopening the suitcases we just weighed and sealed and to just get dressed for outside and go sit in the van before my dad gets cranky that it’s taking so long.

At the airport, as we wait, my mom curls up on the cafe bench, puts her head on my father’s thigh and closes her eyes for a few minutes. And quietly I am charmed at the two of them and the quiet little affections that show unspoken.

The time came, and I followed them to the gate, and hugged my parents both before they left for the next month. I wanted to tell my father to give my love to his mother my grandmother, but my inarticulacy has no bounds and I can’t find the words, yet again. I wanted to tell my mother to give my love to her mother my grandmother, because I’m certain she will visit her grave, but despite my belief that she’d know exactly what I meant, I was still shy to think she’d misunderstand, and so I said nothing.

And my parents left to go Home, and having sent them, I went home myself, relishing the quiet solitude ahead of me and yet so very jealous of their capital letter.