Found

Carelessly, she brushed passed the white-haired man, knocking him to the ground, for fear of missing her flight. One always finds themselves doing unthinkable things when in a hurry.

The fluorescent lights and the traffic of suitcases, blinking schedules, the crying children and the random smells—pizza, croissants, sausage, noodles, burned coffee—they danced among the chaos in the airport. Now a good three paces ahead, she reached out to the man, who was still on the ground, a gesture that said, “I’m so sorry, but I haven’t the time to help you to your feet.” She glanced at her reflection in the store window and hardly recognized herself. Looking down to check her watch for a brief moment, she found her forehead diving into someone’s back. A pair of annoyed eyes spun around as she stepped back, lifting a hand to communicate her apologies. If the man had looked at her for a moment longer, maybe he would have noticed the red under her swollen eyes and maybe would have softened his sharp look and un-furrowed his brow. Instead, he stared irately into her eyes so as to make the point that he was indeed cross.

She stood on her tiptoes trying to determine how long she would be waiting. Noticing the line next to her was shorter, she shuffled over and found herself behind the woman who was carrying a small child.

And then, she stood still. Whoooooosh .

Time slowed as her body physically came to a halt. Her ears opened to the chatter around her and the turbulence of her situation came painfully into view. She had nowhere to hurry to, and as a vortex sucks in the surrounding air, standing still seemed to pull all her emotions into one concentrated ball and she expressed its weight and midnight heaviness in a small gasp. The child, whose rosy cheeks lay pleasantly squashed against the ridge of his mother’s shoulder, as his straight, light hair leaned with the gravity, his lips slightly parted in the way that children’s do, looked up at her, eyes full of sleep.

Tears welled and then in broad strokes, painted her face as she fiddled with her purse, a desperate attempt to find a weapon of distraction to combat her sorrow. Her mind frantically flitted through thoughts in attempt to ignore her loss. Nothing was holding her attention, which had become detached from her purse that refused to latch closed. In this moment, when her storm-ridden mind was most desperate to land on a rock of truth in the middle of the sea, her eyes rose to meet the child’s, whose head had completely lifted from the mother’s shoulder. He had big, beautiful almonds eyes, deep brown, and full of a tenderness that spoke not to depth, but to the innocence that all children share in understanding that no human deserves the kind of circumstances which makes them sob through airports, knocking over poor old men. She locked eyes with his innocence and together they passed through the dark, entering a world where children are the healers of the heart. As if this were the case, she heard a voice come alive in her mind, a child’s voice saying, Let the tears roll, I know why they come, I understand you.

She swallowed the little saliva in her dry mouth and then, her whole body shivered, not out of cold, but in that pleasant way that feeling seen can send a tingle through one’s being. Her brow furrowed and her head tilted so her dark, wavy hair leaned with gravity as she questioned the child. He smiled knowingly, with his mouth fully opened, and his small teeth showed as he gently rocked his head back and forth.

I just want to give up. She thought. I don’t want to keep going or to wait for joy or to take this flight or to see… Her thoughts trailed off while the child shook his head more aggressively, his straight hair flying left and right until he stopped and it was all crisscrossed.

She scoffed a smile, made an attempt to roll her eyes and then directed them piercingly at the child, analyzing what he could possibly know about despair and dying parents. Her lips became pursed and she raised her eye brows in a manner that seemed to challenge the boy’s sagacity while his face became soft again and, in his eyes, this time, there was a depth like he had lived in worlds she did not know even existed. They stayed like this, his hand perched on his mother’s shoulder, holding his head high, while his soft smile accepted that she didn’t understand. She faced him, wondering what he would say next while her lips parted and her mouth lay slightly agape. Then, the tears began to well again. The boy responded with a sudden call to action and he began to squirm his way down and out of his mother’s arms.

Cry. She heard the voice say. Cry with all of your pain. And the tears released like the tide on a golden beach. The boy, now standing, reached out a soft, chubby hand toward her. It was a gesture that said, “I am here so you’re not alone while you cry.” And she reached out for his hand.

I’m scared of my grief and I fear it will never go away, her mind blurted out and it was expressed in a snotty sob.

I know, that’s why we are the same, said the voice. But you are still enough, even in sadness, you can believe this.

She only managed to respond with more tears, while the boy held her hand in both of his, looking at her with empathetic consideration and grace. Her sniffles and snivels were becoming audible and the mother of the boy turned around to such a sight—A young woman, maybe just 20, standing with short, dark wavy hair and fringe that was untouched. She was small and thin and her face a smear of red and wet and mascara stains. Her body moved uncontrollably up and down as her breath tried to gain control of her sobs. Meanwhile her head nodded up and down at the boy who was looking up at her in a patient plea as he sandwiched her hand in his.

The mother took in this scene for a moment, determining what exactly to do.

“Timothy,” She spoke gently to the child, but he didn’t look away from the girl. The mother then laid a hand on his head and gestured toward the girl,

“My dear, are you okay.”

“Oh,” she said taken aback that someone else could see her, “I think so, your boy, well, he saw me crying and I think he’s been comforting me.”

The woman smiled, “Yes he’s had lots of practice with that I’m afraid. His father died a few years ago and I took my time recovering.”

She stared at the woman with a look that mirrored disbelief. “Really? I’m so sorry, I just got news that my father unexpectedly died, so I’m going back home. But, your son, he seems to understand all this.” Her voice was far off in wonder. She looked down at the boy who was now putting the back of her hand to his cheek and smiling at his mom.

The line started moving again and soon they had all passed through customs. As the mother and son walked away the enlightened child waved his soft hand goodbye and disappeared around a corner.

She found a bathroom and stood looking in the mirror for a while after cleaning her face. She was trying to grasp what just happened and how the boy could have known about her father. Then she heard the child’s voice again, You will be okay.

Her eyes locked with those in the mirror and she realized she recognized the small voice, it was not the little boy’s but it was her own, her younger self, the child within, who had been lost, talking to her this whole time. As she stood still, looking in the mirror, she was able to understand it all at once; it was the little boy who had found her.