On the Way to the Airport

kissfly_web
Mood: Hungry
Drinking: Tea

I have this thing about airports.

More accurately: I have a thing about taking people I love to the airport, leaving them there, and driving away.

You could call it a superstition, I guess. Categorize it with black cats and indoor umbrellas. I just call it a “thing”.

It goes like this:
Every time I have to drop someone off at the airport, send them back to where they came from or off on a trip without me, I worry that they won’t come back. That this time, this brief moment here at the curb, this rush of last minute reminders and double-checking of luggage, this is it. This is the last time we’ll see each other.

There’s never really time for panicky endearments. And really, at that moment, I like to keep my irrational fear to myself. So goodbyes are often perfunctory.

“See you later.” “Have a good trip.” “Call me when you get there.” “Love you.”

People do this every day. The quick drop off. The hurried goodbyes. And really, my fear is not all that irrational, because sometimes, for the tragic few, it is the last goodbye.

In the sprawl of O’Hare Airport, there’s a small parking lot with a little green sign that says “Kiss & Fly”. It’s the end of the airport train line, where you can conveniently drop off or pick up your traveler far from the congested bustle of the terminal.

I’ve always thought it was a good name, and it fits perfectly with my newest cinepoem. She’s not nearly as fanciful and melodramatic as the last cinepoem was. She’s an everyday sort of girl, just going about her business.

But! She does have something very special… a guest appearance by Boy. It’s the first time in 17 cinepoems he’s ever appeared in front of the camera. Took a lot of sweet talking to get him there, so do pay attention!

Alright. Enough explanations. It’s time to Kiss & Fly.

The YouTube version is over here, for you non-quicktime folks.

-Lo, who never whistles while she works.

Kiss and Fly

kissandfly

Mood: Weary
Drinking: Empty

On the way to the airport
we speak of miscellany
and etcetera
in fits and starts.

I tell him Brandy
killed a man. We
both shrug. She’s not
a real girl anyway.

There is such a silence
before sunup
even on the freeway.
Cars creep along carefully

flashing caution-colored
yellows before crossing
the line. Caffeine has not yet
been consumed

in appropriate quantities.
So this might just
all be a dream anyway,
thick and non-linear.

When I pull away from
the curb, his kiss
has barely left a mark.
I practice all

the usual hoodoo,
visualizing the crash,
the flames and lost limbs.
(It is the only way

to keep him safe.)
Imagining the worst
prevents it from coming true.
Keeps me from

waking up. When
I finally get home
I have no recollection
of how I got there.

-Lo, who is old enough to believe in jinxes.

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