In Transit

by Don Schofield

(December 11)

This morning, a Sunday, I was at the Athens airport, flying to California, to you, dear Brother, stopping and starting in a roped-off, zigzag line, waiting to check in. I was sure I’d slump to the floor weeping before I could get to the counter. You were dying, Larry. But I had to focus on the immediate—lift my suitcase, let them weigh it, tag it, toss it to the long, black conveyer belt behind them. Watch it disappear.

At Security I followed blunt orders. Took shoes and belt off. Emptied pockets. Opened my knapsack and pulled out my laptop. Let them X-ray it all as I raised my arms for them to scan legs and crotch, chest and armpits, their wand zinging with current.

		Not dangerous 
		though any second my heart 
		might explode.

In the crowded Delta lounge, I heard the announcements for who can board: special needs, then active military, then First Class. The rest of us up and waiting. Passing through the trembling boarding tunnel, I was just a griever. Found my window seat. Clicked tight my seatbelt. Turned my phone to Airplane Mode. Read again your oldest son’s message last evening: “He’s still in ICU. Not sure he’ll make it.”

Nate’s been carrying the burden of care for you for two years now, rushing to the hospital every fortnight it seems. When we talked last night he told me of his latest visit: you unconscious amid machines and dripping tubes, oxygen set to full, doctors puzzling over failing kidneys, lungs filling with fluid. 

Over the Atlantic, I tried to envision that other visit, a few days ago, the one Nate was so happy about. Taking out his phone, he pulled up some ‘50s rock, placed the phone on your shoulder. Cried as your head vaguely nodded to the rhythm.

		Did your spirit, slowly unspooling,
		rise to that rhythm
		above cords and cables and blinking lights?

		Were you ready, even then,
		to spiral away, one dimension
		to the next?

Later, waking to the pilot’s voice, I was jolted back to necessity: pulled my seatback up, buckled my seatbelt. Watched as we descended to JFK. I knew I had to transfer to Domestic, make my connection to SFO. At Passport Control, I remembered to turn my phone back on. A new message: “He’s gone.”  

I moved with the others through another zigzag line. Went numb to the next terminal. With your son’s message, a photo, the last of you alive: head deep in a fluffed pillow, blanket drawn up to your neck. Closed eyelids, hard and dark as desiccated seashells.

		Could you feel that sea
		pulling at you, Larry,
		dark fluids draining?

Security again, then the boarding lounge. Sat next to a squalling infant—Oh, how I wanted her wail.

From my window seat, as I finish this first entry, I’m looking out past the wing to the runway, where swollen clouds smother the horizon. Passing through them, we’re up and off, heading west.

		God or no, you’ll wake 
		to protons spinning as they disengage. That sea 
		of sorts waiting. White foam

		of no breathing, no body,
		no brooding. Where you’re going, Larry,
		I can’t follow.

		Not yet.

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