April 20, 1999

This is something I wrote nearly 10 years ago. Where does the time go? I thought I had lost it as a hardware failure caused me to lose lots of old documents a few years ago. IT Guys know you need to back up, but we also think data loss never happens to us, until it's too late. I found a printed copy, and here is what I wrote:

April 20, 1999

It's always raining when I drive to BWI. Eighty miles in the rain, cold and dark. What's with the spring break in April? Seems a little late to me. And why is he coming out here anyway? If it was me, I would stay in California. Used to go to the beach in April. Hell, we would go to the beach in January!

What's this costing me, anyway? A bundle. And just for a week? Can't he stay with friends? What about his cousins? He eats like a horse, too. Whose idea was this anyway?

Geez, there's always construction on this damn road. I'll probably miss the exit. Should have sent him a hundred bucks and told him to stay with his cousins. That would have saved me some money. Alright, got the right turnoff, construction and everything.

Well, the radio station is fading out. The news is too depressing anyway. I'll see what else I can find. Country; Country; Oldies. Hey, this sounds good: "Washington's favorite Classic R and B." Now I get to sing. Man, I haven't heard this for years!

I had to meet you here today
There's just so many things to say
Please don't stop me 'til I'm through
This is something I hate to do

What I lack in ability, I compensate for with volume!

We've been meeting here so long
I guess what we've done, oh was wrong
Please darlin', don't you cry
Let's just kiss and say goodbye.

I start to cry. All those kids. Their moms and dads, grandparents, friends; no one got to tell them goodbye. No one got to kiss them one last time.

I turn off the radio. After parking the truck I wander into the terminal. The monitors show that the plane will be 45 minutes late.

Must be the last arrival of the night. The concourse to the gate is already closed off and the lights are dimmed. I sit down in the large waiting area, where there are three TV's. Three different channels, but all the same story. Columbine High School. One TV has paramedics rushing a gurney to an ambulance. The sheet covering the person is soaked in blood. The next TV shows two girls talking wildly and pointing, extremely distraught, close to going into shock. The last TV shows a teacher; calmly, coolly explaining the situation, then she suddenly falls apart, sobbing uncontrollably.

The waiting area is uncharacteristically quiet. Everyone is watching the televisions, sitting as far away from them as possible. It's as if they were trying to distance themselves from what happened.

The quiet is finally broken by the public address system. The plane has arrived 15 minutes earlier than expected. Seems like they are trying to take credit for being 15 minutes early, when they are actually 30 minutes late. Bogus!

The passengers emerge from the darkened concourse looking like miners coming out of a coal mine; squinting at the bright lights, fatigued after their ordeal. At six foot five my son is easy to pick out. I walk over to him and give him a hug. "What's up?" he says, but his look says What the Heck are you Doing? I grab his bag and say "Let's go home."