There's something about the end of a trip when you can't wait to get home. A complete turn around from the excitement at the start of an adventure, the idea of getting home makes me impatient and cranky. I was booked on a 5:15 flight out of Chicago. This because we were told by the convention staff, to tell the travel agent not to book a flight before 3:00. But the convention ended with lunch and closing remarks, and the hotel shuttle had us to the airport shortly after 1:00. I made it through security and checked to see if there might be an earlier flight home. I was willing to spend my own money for a flight change if it meant getting home sooner. I scanned the departures screens and found a flight leaving Chicago at 3:00. Even better, my 5:15 flight had a stopover and this one was direct to Fort Myers, with an arrival time of about 7:00 pm! It was in a different set of gates from my current flight, but I had plenty of time to kill so I took a walk to the gate. I waited in line for about 15 minutes at the ticket counter, only to be told the 3:00 flight was already oversold and there was no chance I could get a seat. I was mad, and frustrated, and tired. I just wanted to get home, and now I was stuck waiting three more hours for a flight that had me stopped over in Charlotte for two hours and getting home at midnight. I sure was feeling sorry for myself. I decided to try and find something to eat and a place to stop and charge my phone before going to my gate. I just couldn't wait to get home.
**
I watched out the window curious, as fire trucks lined the tarmac at a standstill. American Airlines employees in neon vests surrounded the area and the aircraft rolled in slowly, deliberately. An American flag was held high, draped off airstairs standing free, rather than up against an airplane lifting passengers to board. First responders in uniforms stood solemnly on the ground, tiny little figures beneath the massive aircraft. Travelers lined the terminal windows, pushed up against the glass, and waiting. Some snapped photos, others desperately trying to hold their hands still enough to capture video on their iPhones.
There had been rumors at the close of the convention of flight delays into North Carolina, due to a fire at RDU. I was flying into Charlotte. I snapped a quick photo, unknowingly. I texted it to my sister in Durham wondering if she had heard anything about a fire. I thought the Chicago crew might be showing some sort of solidarity for a possible tragedy in North Carolina. She assured me there was no such news. Hours early for my flight, I sat and watched. I waited, feeling uneasy about the people around me snapping photos and taking video. I got a sense it was an invasion of privacy. In just minutes it became clear to me why. I felt a rising fullness from my gut up into the back of my throat. I had trouble swallowing. My eyes were warmed over with a light stream of tears pushing up through my bottom lids. My heartbeat sped.
The ramp from the plane was lowered and a side rail raised. There was no jetway. There was no flight crew in pressed uniforms. No passenger disembarkation. Just an empty gateway from a giant American Airlines plane. And from behind one of those large cars that usually carries luggage from the terminal to the plane, came a crew of sailors in service dress whites. They approached the ramp, and were met by a different kind of airline crew. These men had ground uniforms on, and they came out of the door of the plane, maneuvering a box, draped in another American Flag. It was clear, these sailors were here to carry their fallen brother home.
**
I was finally home. Midnight at the Southwest Florida Airport is nothing like rush hour in Chicago, or even prime time on Friday night in Charlotte. Sure there were flights arriving and people waiting for their loved ones. But this airport is always laid back and vacation-like. Heck, it's Florida. As a wearily trekked out of the gateway and out the terminal, walking along the floor to ceiling windows I glanced down to the tarmac thinking about the soldier I saw ceremoniously arrive home in Chicago. This certainly couldn't have been the homecoming his family had been waiting for. I wondered if American Airlines was specifically chosen for this type of flight or if it was coincidence. I don't know the details of the soldier or if I am even understanding the events as I think I saw them. There was no explanation for those of us watching from inside the terminal.
I was awe-struck by the emotional feelings I was still having, thinking about what I saw. I suppose it may be because in the past few years, I have become close with a friend who is a military wife. I thought about her photos of the day her husband came home to their four-month-old daughter for the first time. As I was in sight of the escalator down to baggage claim, I heard someone running from behind me. I turned back and then forward again, and I saw a young lady running toward me from the front. The steps from behind got heavier and I could hear the breathing that went with them. Soon I saw a soldier in fatigues run past me, and the girl toward him. She jumped into his arms and wrapped her legs around him, and they turned in circles embracing. Everyone looked at them with ear-to-ear smiles, and I was overcome with emotion. My eyes welled up once again. Another soldier is home.
