9B

There is a gate at Logan Airport that breaks me.

9B

It is nothing special.

A small counter for two. A computer. A destination sign still changed by hand. Gray carpet. Hard molded seats. The old ones. No phone charging docks.

Always at least one wheelchair leaning against the side of the on-ramp amidst the smell of industrial cleaner and cinnamon buns.

A threshold. The crossing over. The to and fro that brought me to my father’s dying.

I simply moved through it. Form and function unnoticed.

I notice it now.

In the years since my father’s death, it feels like accidentally finding myself in a cemetery.

It surprises me every time.

The thud in the stomach and the loss of breath.

Muttering, “Oh fuck…”

And you know what I’m talking about, don’t you?

But for you its the supermarket.

Or the smell of Head and Shoulders shampoo. Or that Beatles song. Or the car you had to sell. Or the light that hits the tree a certain way. Or the coat hanging in the closet. Or Elmo’s voice. Or Mother’s Day. Or that exit off route six.

The poker chips of our emotions. The ante upped.

The every day of our extraordinary love.

Love Lost.