Everyone has a Story
The Houston to Alexandria plane is late.
It’s the story of airports: hurry up and wait.
I take my spot at Gate B-66. Ready to get home to the Louisiana piney woods.
It’s then I see her.
Let me rephrase that. I see them.
A lovely older woman with a lifetime smile that she’s probably worn for eighty-plus years.
She’s got a reason to smile. She feeding a bottle to a tiny baby.
They’re protectively surrounded by what I surmise is their family.
The woman is probably the great-grandmother. I can pick out what are probably four generations staring adoringly at the baby and grandma.
It touches me.
Everyone in an airport has a story.
I don’t know theirs.
I just know they are family.
I can sense it.
I can see it.
I can even feel it.
In a society where it seems every family is under attack, it takes an airport delay and a great grandmother-grandchild to remind me that the things that really matter always have to do with family.
The family is alive.
Long live the family.