Written By Hasmig on the Plane

On Our Way

Ever since I've been the only responsible adult in the house, I have been paranoid about sleeping through alarms. This morning, 12:45am, I set two alarms on my phone, falling asleep to goodnight text messages and checking off boxes in my head:  clean sheets on Sevan's bed, check. Glasses case, check. Passport, check. Note to Sevan, check. Alarm, check. Alarm, check.  Before I know it, it's 4:30 am and Marimba on iphone is chiming me awake. On early mornings, its Dolly Parton who gets me to the bathroom.  I hum my favorite tune from the 80s, "stumble out of bed and into the kitchen, pour myself a cup of ambition, yawning, stretching trying to come alive...". Mornings alone in the house are calm and unsettling at once.  No one to take care of but myself--a daunting task I'm not very good at.  I'm showered, dressed, hair is braided tightly back, suitcase is zipped and last minute laundry is folded neatly and stowed away for Sevan's return.  I am thinking of my sweet boy as I wait for Jacquey, Steve, and Leib to arrive.  He is stirring by now, no doubt. Maybe knows that I am awake, aware of the departure, a gentle tug on the invisible fishing line that keeps us connected across space.

My phone is unusually quiet.  Half expecting a few texts in the mornings about being late, forgetting passports, or panicked parents with last minute jitters, I carry it around the house with me.  I am imagining the homes of our kids abuzz, jammed zippers, swollen, sleepless fingers fumbling with laces.  Clean, dripping hair.  All of them on their way. 

 It's 5:15, pick up time. Adams St is quiet. It's 5:16 and I am taken back to swim season, 1992, before I could drive.  We were in the pool by 5:30am and would rotate in and out of a carpool of brave parents who would drive us to practice every morning. And every morning, as 5:00 came and went, I would start to get anxious that I had been forgotten. Once, I was forgotten and never made it.  Other times, we were just tardy. But my father's strict on-time training has a drawback.  When others are even one minute late,I wonder, 'have I been forgotten?'.  This morning, the thought never crossed my mind.  If there is one family who would not forget me this morning, it was the Sutcher/Barbers. 5:20. The car is warm, the coffee hot, the muffins are fresh. A first class family.

5:25, we arrive at Craig's.  Leib jumps out to knock on the door while I re-arrange the trunk in my favorite game of Suitcase Tetris  "Guys, I'm worried Craig slept through his alarm."  The adults, all four of us, exchanged quizzical glances.  Nahhh, I thought, Craig wouldn't sleep through.  Not THIS morning. So Leib started a more aggressive knocking campaign, Steve and Jacquey were on their phones, and I started creating a mental blueprint of the back of their house, mapping out our route should we have to climb to the 2nd floor through the yard and wake him.  We four have been an exceptional team this year. For so many things.  This morning would be no different.    And so it has been before, many times in fact, Leib was right.  Craig was fast asleep in his sweet boy's bed, a serendipitous choice, since Kyle's bedroom window is the one facing the front porch.  Had Craig been sleeping on the 2nd floor, back of the house, we would have had to use my mental map and the rope swing that hangs from the Black Walnut in the backyard to retrieve Craig from his slumber. 

6:10, we roll up to Delta's terminal 1 at SFO.  A quick look around tells us we have made a royal entrance, the last to arrive.  They look beautiful these sleep deprived young people. They have listened so carefully. They are on time. Their suitcases are 22 inches.  They have passports. Most of them look clean, or clean enough. They are ready. We are ready.  We take a group photo, families and kids, and get into the check in line. I don't recall seeing the goodbyes between parents and their kids. Parents hug me.  My ear is filled to the brim with "take care of my girl.  take care of my boy.  take care of your flock." Instinctively, I turn to say goodbye to my own loved ones and there are Jacquey and Steve. They have guided this entire process alongside of us, in many ways leading us, and so leaving them behind is counter intuitive.  The hug is tight enough to squeeze the tears who finally break free.  This is a big moment. We all know it.

The kids are way ahead of me and Craig by now. I do a head count...1,2,3,4...that's all I see.  Several snakes in the line ahead, there the rest of them are. Heads bobbing in conversation.  I am the only one looking back over my shoulder and the parents who remain, craning necks, waving hands, subtly dabbing tears. 

What has been a complex journey to organize begins seamlessly.  The piles of paper, stacks of checks, the manila folders full of forms and copies of forms, the check lists and packing lists evaporate with each step.  And when we arrive at the threshold, TSA's arbitrary line between the have's and the have-nots, we are just 15 passports, 15 boarding passes, 15 backpacks, 15 pairs of shoes, and one heart. I look back one last time in search of that shock of silver hair, the final wave, or the universal thumbs up. But they are gone. We are alone, together. We are on our way.