Coming Apart

Mr. Pettit and I returned last week from a long journey. Thousands of miles traveled by air and sea and land. Blistering cold and sweltering heat. Glaciers, penguins, and vibrant cities glimmering in the South American summer.

And yet I feel led to devote my first column about this adventure to a few people passing through Ezeiza International Airport in Buenos Aires, Argentina.

She was sitting across from us near security. Early twenties, I’d guess, wearing jeans, a T-shirt and a sweater tied around her waist. Long dark hair, sweet face.

Mr. Pettit and I noticed that she was dabbing at her eyes. She’d touch the corners, as if clearing away a bit of dust, then look around, as if the problem were resolved. Then she’d wipe at her eyes again.

Tears bring release when they can flow freely. But it is a torment to fight them in a public place; they persist in spite of attempts to distract and deny. I longed to comfort this young woman, especially since I have fought the same battle numerous times, but I didn’t want to add to her misery by acknowledging it. I’ve learned that I can stop crying only if those around me pretend I’m fine. Put an arm around my shoulders and I’m a goner.

Finally, I decided to offer her some tissues. She thanked me in a soft, small voice and I returned to my seat. I thought I should offer kind or wise words to her, but I had nothing. Shortly afterward, she picked up her bag and walked away, probably to escape the witnesses to her pain. {She did not leave for her flight, because she came back around an hour later.)

Why was she crying? No one was waiting with her—no friend or relative or significant other. Had she been summarily dropped off by her loved ones or had she pushed them away to save herself another round of goodbyes? Was she grieving over what she was leaving behind or fearful of what she was flying to?

I wanted to tell her that her pain, whatever its cause, would ease in time, even if it didn’t disappear completely. I wanted to tell her that God loves her most of all, and that He would never forsake her.

I did not.

But I know God didn’t fail her and that He carried her through her tears.

Later, we noticed a group of four: A woman and a man, both middle-aged; and a younger man and woman in their late teens or early twenties.

At first glance we thought we were seeing two parents and a sister bidding farewell to their son/brother. But that assumption was quickly dashed when we saw how the two younger people clung to each other. Theirs was an embrace between girlfriend and boyfriend or husband and wife, a world unto themselves.

It was clear that the older woman was the young man’s mother when she pulled him in close for a hug. She waited her turn—she knew her place—but then held on tight, her son comforting her. The man I assumed was the father stood quietly, unmoving, on the sidelines.

How long would the young man be gone? At least he flew away knowing that a sweet reunion awaited him at some point.

The third scene played out to our left. The man and woman, in their late twenties or early thirties, were inseparable from the first moment I saw them. It was hard to tell which one was leaving. Although I didn’t stare I was able to discern a rhythm to their moments together. Embrace, pull away to speak and dispose of tissues, embrace again.

I considered trying to sneak a photo of them by pretending to take a shot of the Diego Maradona statue nearby. But I reminded myself that, although the couple was bidding farewell in a public space, their feelings were very private and should be treated as such.

How many goodbyes did Ezeiza International hold that day? I imagine they ran the gamut from the quick-kiss-see-you-later for the short business trip to Bogota to the when-will-I-see-you-again departure for the States.

I’ll never know how these farewells panned out. I’m an optimist and a romantic, so I hope all was well in the end. Especially for the distraught young woman we saw first. I envision her settling into a kind of numbness on her long flight, followed by a burst of clarity. By the time she landed, she knew what she wanted.

Maybe there was a text waiting when she turned off airplane mode. “I’m sorry. Forgive me. I love you.” (Written in Spanish, of course.)

And how did she respond?

She made him wait. Let him feel the sting of goodbye a little while longer.

Her mouth turned up in a slightly wicked grin. Maybe he was stifling tears behind his desk at that moment.

“Serves him right,” she said. (I imagine it sounds even better in Spanish.)

Terminal A, Ezeiza International Airport, Buenos Aires, Argentina. Statue of Diego Maradona, Argentinian soccer star, in foreground.