Cocktails and tears

"Is this shuttle bus going to Gate 44H?" the forty-ish blonde asked with a tone of panic.  It is not that she didn't have reasons to panic.  American airports are going from worst to worstest ever and asking customer service folks for clarification will only make one panic even more.

The younger man standing next to me assured her that we were all headed to the same place.

"Are you also going to Phoenix?" she now asked.

"No, to Eugene."

"Hey, I am also going to Eugene" I joined in as the bus jolted to a start.

"Oh, Eugene is a fun city" the blonde said loudly to make sure the bus noise did not drown her out.  "More than twenty years ago, I went there when I was a teenager.  The Grateful Dead were performing and my friends were going. I asked my mother to pay for my airplane ticket.  From Montana, which is where I was then."

Ah, yes, the Deadheads. In Eugene. Tie-dye, and all.  Made for each other.

"My mother bought me a one-way ticket. I reached Eugene with a twenty dollar bill.  It was before cellphones."

By now she had moved closer to us and I got a strong whiff of alcohol breath.  The shuttle reached Gate 44 and I was separated from Ms. Cocktails.

At my gate, a young woman, perhaps edging close to twenty, was sobbing away while trying to get a few words across to whoever she was talking with on her iPhone.  A torture the separation from a loved one is when young.  The world seems to come to an end.  Even this old curmudgeon can easily recall those old teenage days.

It was time to board.  No hurry.

As she passed me, the sobbing young woman was now only silently weeping and drying her eyes with tissue in her hand.

I was the last one to board.

As I reached my seat, it was Ms. Tears next to me.

I sat down.  I reached for my seat belt and saw that she was looking in my direction.

"Are you ok?"

She nodded her head.

"I noticed you crying in the terminal ... I just want to make sure you are alright."

"Thanks. I am just having a tough time saying bye to a dear friend."

"Let me know if you think I can be of help" I said as I reached for the copy of The Atlantic that I had saved for this leg of the travel.

I imagined a young Ms. Cocktails twenty years ago sobbing away, and her mother spending her hard-earned money to pay for the daughter's airfare.  In my mind, I wished Ms. Tears a life of happily ever after.