Morris dropped me off at the Fort Lauderdale Airport after a short trip from the Century Village where my parents lived. He had established quite a business for himself, shopping, driving, and picking up take-out for his neighbors, who, over the years, had aged and weakened and lost the spouses they had come south with. Morris was a great resource for them my mother used to say. He had been lucky with his health, and this free-lance work was a cinch. He had been a seltzer delivery man in Brooklyn before he retired. Now that had been hard work, climbing countless flights of steps every day, carrying cases of glass bottles to walk-ups on high floors. His daily exercise for all those years had enhanced his excellent constitution.
My father had stopped driving to the airport the year before. At first, it was just pick-up. The cops who enforced the "no stopping" rules had always made him nervous, and he no longer could expect my mother to wait for me by baggage claim, collect me, and meet him a block away from "Arrivals" where the cops didn't bother shooing cars away from the curb. But soon enough he found Morris' services to be such a convenience that he reserved him for both ways.
It was a relief for me to get out of the car and into the airport with little fanfare. I had said my goodbyes back home at the Century Village. Funny that I referred to it as home, since I had never lived there. But even though I had moved out of my parents' house many years before, and even though they had sold that house and lived in several apartments since my leaving, I habitually referred to any place where they lived as home.
The airport was its usual madhouse, even worse, since it was early January, winter break. The energy was bouncy and chaotic. College students were continuing their New Year's carousals. They shouted to one another, as if they still needed to make themselves heard above the boisterous bands. There was loud, raucous laughter. A few even tooted on noisemakers.
The din dissipated when I got to the end of the long, winding line for airport security. I was at the waiting portion of the hurry-up-and-wait that is airport embarkation. The people ahead of me were subdued and obedient. Even the college kids had quieted down, preparing to follow the new rules. At this point no one wanted any trouble.
Nearby, a girl was discussing with her friend whether or not she had to take off her oversized novelty sunglasses because they hid her face. No one was sure what was permitted or required. It was 2002. Increased airport security was new and in transition. It had not yet become a way of life.
The line barely moved while the guards seemed to be working out the details of security on the spot. After all of the activity of the past week, this sudden slow-down gave me too much time to think. I wasn't ready for that. Those silly sunglasses. They were on display at every kiosk and cheap souvenir store at the airport. Several people in front of me were wearing them. The center 00 made a perfect frame for the lenses, and 2002 was a numeric palindrome, which duplicated the symmetry of the double-0. A two on each end. Zeroes at the center.
Suddenly a ridiculous thought popped into my mind. What if I had brought a pair of those sunglasses to my mother's examination last week? I could have slipped them on when the nurse asked my mother what year it was. I pictured myself pointing emphatically to my glasses so only Mom could see and not the nurse. Magic glasses. Invisible. Would Mom have been able to answer, "2002" instead of shrugging and murmuring that she didn't know? Would she have been able to make the connection between those glasses and the information they offered? Would she have gotten at least one answer right? No, of course not. She was that far gone.
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