A woman at the airport said she was waiting for a blind guy. I started talking about how I'd lived in fifty million places, changed careers, had my son at twenty. He lived in Kansas.
She said it sounded like an interesting sequence. She sounded Midwestern. She had a daughter-in-law from Haiti, and she talked about the girl, said she was a resident who'd tried to join the Navy. I told her when I met my ex-husband he was a resident of Cyprus. We met in the Air Force.
My son called to say that he had landed. It used to be just me and him and him and me in all those places. He hadn't been living with his father for a year yet. Now, it was just four days until we'd have to say goodbye again.
The lady said her friend was only legally blind, meaning he could at least see a little. He was really a friend of a friend. She didn't really know him. I thought about my blind grandfather, ninety-two, living on his own, still. My grandmother, on the other side, with the same kind of blindness. My son was colorblind, though we didn't find out until his teen years. I told her we were all blind, in our own ways.
Finally, I thought I saw my son, but when I looked again, he was someone different. His head was shaved. He carried a brown case, wore combat boots, eyewear, and a shirt that sprouted muscles. He was coming toward me, in a gait I didn't recognize.
He brought lettuce and tomatoes. She tried to hide her breath, said she had a good day. Fabulous, she said, despite his leaving and her orbiting a truck stop.
He sat on the chair he'd also brought back. When she asked about her dishes he said he'd bring them in installments.
They talked with hardly a wiggle. He said he loved but didn't want. He asked if they could talk some.
She said of course and yes please.
He smiled. He sat there and he nodded, falling asleep with his shoes on.
is the author of the collections Oh Baby
. She lives in Viroqua, Wisconsin, and Buffalo, New York.