Airport people

So humane, airport people. Brisk executives, summer travellers, carts and bags carrying lives and secrets. Comfortable shoes. Mysterious people whom you cannot imagine whence they got the money for their airticket. Tall Swedes. Minuscular Chileans. Some ordered chaos. And somewhere, my daughter, past the lines of judgement, into the secure zone. Waiting for her flight and yet, she knows not I am here. Wishing to clasp her again. As if I had died and she just doesn''t learn the afterlife and present life relationships. Happiness and sobbing. True grief over the distance gap, in spite of the internet, of flickr, of YouTube and skype. Nothing like this doing nothing, but together. The sweet seconds when you were here, all along these years. And now, far, you leave for the cold dark winter London, in jeans.