There are moments when a memory is triggered for me (usually by a person) and my heart does this little thing.
Standing in the Immigrations line late last night waiting for that familiar sound to bounce off our passports signaling, “You’re home”, everyone was weary, suntanned or burned and definitely impatient.
“I want my bed.” I said out loud to no one in particular.
“Vacation’s over. Now get me out of here,” said everyone’s face.
And knowing the external temperature and the prospect of shoveling wasn’t helping the mood either.
Snapping out of it, I saw someone from four rows ahead looking at me. Gazing down then back up again, I smiled in recognition and tentatively waved. He gave a small wave back.
And my heart squeezed.
Had he been on my plane? This whole time?
I hadn’t seen him since the summer between my sophomore and junior years in college. I don’t even remember where it was or what was said.
I dated his brother for a while in high school. He was my best “guy friend” at the time. They were identical twins. I could tell them apart. Always.
His brother was sometimes a jerk. He was always sweet.
When his brother was busy, he’d ask me to the beach or the mall or a movie. We would hang out for hours.
We were only friends.
Never getting close enough to speak last night as the Immigration line snaked around, hundreds of people answered questions like, “How many days were you in Mexico? Can I see your customs form? Bring in any plants?”
I don’t even know if I’d introduce him given the opportunity. Or what I’d say. Where I’d begin. If anyone would care but the two of us.
I was simply happy my path crossed with his one last (?) time.
Riding up the escalator, he looked back to customs. Where I was.
I raised my hand a little.
And my heart did its thing.
This was written for Trifecta using the third definition of the word:
1: a trodden way
2: a track specially constructed for a particular use