Waiting in the Arrivals Lounge, they stand, they gaze toward the gate area. A woman in bright white shoes tugs at the hem of her shirt in the wait, adjusts her purse on her shoulder, tugs her shirt. Another woman in flip-flops stands, rests one knee on a seat nearby and loses her sandal. She hunts for it, puts it back on, starts to bend her knee onto the seat again, stops herself only as her shoe slides off once more. It’s a group of fidgeting folks, happily impatient, wearing smiles so as to be fully prepared.
A gray-haired cowboy arrives with a bouquet of flowers and his keys hanging on his hip. He sits next to me and nods, then locks his eyes toward the gates. He shifts from side to side, he glances into the flowers and takes a long, steadying breath.
White Shoes meets her adult son, fresh from a flight. She nearly cries as she holds him, a grown man with a backpack, tugging at his t-shirt like his mother. Cowboy and I both grin, first to ourselves, then vaguely toward each other. My friend exits and heads my way, she and I greet each other with big smiles and move toward the parking lot. I nod to the Cowboy once more, noticing he seems young and nervous just now. He rubs his gray beard, adjusts his hat, and nods right back.
–Colorado. (Though we weren’t in trucks, this Cowboy also reminded me of the Farm Finger.