Storms, Love, and a Magic Scarf

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I arrive at the airport early, and the sale signs on the shop windows begin to lure me away from my destination, but I say to myself, “No! First find your gate so you know for sure where you’re going and if the flight is still on time.” 
I stroll up to E20, proud of myself for not oversleeping, and as I begin to read the screen with the flight number and time, an airline employee announces, “Last call for flight 456 to Charlotte, North Carolina.” 
Being the detail oriented person that I am, I need to investigate. Is this the same Flight 456 that connects to Birmingham, Alabama? I approach the desk casually.
“Excuse me.” I pull out my boarding pass to read Flight #456 is the first leg of my trip. “Is this the same flight…Uh, never mind. I see that the flight time is 8:02 AM, not 8:32…This must be my flight.”
“Let me take a look at your boarding pass.” The woman with brown hair pulled back in a tight ponytail snatches the paper from my fingers.
“Yes. This would be your flight. You’re lucky you didn’t miss it.”
That’s what I’m thinking. Glad I didn’t stop to buy myself the “magic scarf”—capable of nineteen differentlooks—onsale for only $9.99. 
I rush onto the plane and take seat 13F in the Emergency Exit aisle. 
“Ma’am, are you comfortable assisting others in the case of an emergency?” The flight attendant stands next to me and waits for my answer. 
All I can think is, if this US Airways staff worker read my Blog, there’s no way she’d trust me to help people in a moment of panic. In the likely event that I pop this door open and fall out without a parachute, I’ll be remembered as a liar.  
“Ma’am. We can change your seat if you’re not comfortable help—”
“Oh? Uh, yes…I mean ‘No.’ I’ll be fine here. This guy’ll take care of us.” I point to the uniformed man who just sat down next to me.
I smile at my seat neighbor as he laughs while pulling out his iPhone. “Sure. Done this hundreds of times. We’ll be fine.”
Mr. Confident Uniform Man doesn’t turn off his cell phone after the voice overhead announces “All electronic devices must be shut off.” 
Is this guy an aviation cop? We all know how cops get away with breaking law, i.e. riding on the shoulder during a traffic jam for example. 
Anyway, come to find out Mr. Four Stripes on His Shoulder is a real live pilot. I’m sitting next to a pilot! But not the pilot of this flight. Obviously. 
But. He’s not just a pilot. The man builds planes. Real planes. Not just the cool model planes that come with a super-glue tube and step by step directions and after completion, sit on your bookshelf collecting dust. But real planes that he puts together with his hands and then sits inside of and flies in the air. Up there.
At some point, Mr. Chalk Full of Stories Pilot leans over with his phone that is still on, and begins flipping through pictures of tropical storms, hurricanes, and tornadoes. During the slide show, all I can think is: “Why do the rules not apply to you buddy?” 
“Which website are you finding all these amazing close up shots of storms and views of the ocean in the middle of hurricanes?” I ask instead.
He makes a funny face. I recognize it. It’s the same face my husband makes when I realize that he already answered my question. Caught spacing out and I just met this feller. “Uh. I just told you these are my pictures.”

“You mean? You’re telling me? Hold on. Let me see that one of Hurricane Irene again.” He scrolls and clicks to pull up a panoramic shot of dismal grey storm clouds overshadowing leaping ocean waves. 
My jaw hangs open. Good thing the windows are closed else I’m sure I’d have a few bugs in my teeth by now. “You took this picture while you were flying the plane?” And then the more terrifying question. “You took your hands off the steering wheel to take pictures?”
He laughs. “These things are amazing. They pretty much fly themselves once you reach a certain altitude.”
“And you fly right into storms?” I know this is a dumb question, but I think it. So I ask it.
“No. Of course not. We fly around the storms. Or we wait it out if until a safe circuit forms to avert the storm. Look here.” He shows me another shot of a black sky with swirling tornadoes touching massive waves below. “We flew around this storm along the red dotted path. That’s how I got such great pictures of it.”
Very cool. Scary. But totally cool.
By the time I connect flights and the wheels touch down in Birmingham, I’ve made two friends, but I’m ready to see my grandma.
As I walk toward Baggage Claim, my eye catches the sale signs in stores everywhere. There’s that magic scarf again. Calling my name. No. Stay focused. Remember your mission.
My mission for this four day trip is simple. To love my grandma. At the age of 87, time is not on her side, but in reality, time isn’t on anyone’s side. But we do have a choice as to how we’ll spend our time, and I want to spend some time with Biji, my mom’s mom.

I arrive at the hospital, find her room and when I enter in, she looks so different than I remember her from less than a year ago. Perhaps it’s all the tubes she’s connected to. Or the cast on her broken arm. Or her dentures not in. Or her hair all scattered behind her head rather than in her usual neatly tied single braid down her back. I hug her carefully and take a seat. A chair I will grow very familiar with over the next few days. 

We chat and laugh. And as things come up, I help her with some basics. Clip her toenails. Feed her soup. Wash her eyes. Cream her legs. Hand her the phone. And give her sips of water when the oxygen dries out her throat. 
I even comb her hair. Not the best moment for us. 
“Ouch!” She has a lot of tangles. “Don’t you know how to comb hair?”
“With four daughters, I think I know what I’m doing Biji.”
I also spend a lot of time laughing with her. My grandma is one funny lady. She speaks her mind, especially with the reality of aging following her closer than her shadow. Finding her place. Doubting her usefulness. Knowing it probably won’t get easier. All this and much more linger in the air between her jokes and daily anecdotes. 
“Biji. I have an idea. Come to New York. Tell me stories. I’ll type them up. We’ll split the profit fifty-fifty!” I declare the solution. Knowing it’ll never work.
“Sure,” Biji says. “Make it seventy-thirty, and I might consider it.” 
I laugh, but before I can counter offer, she says, “Your house is too small. I’m not living there.” Yup. There’s no guessing with Biji. 
The last evening of my visit, I linger by her bedside, my uncle returning several times to wonder what’s taking so long. I nod to him that I’m coming. To buy a few more minutes. I hate leaving her. Especially on this night when her legs keep seizing with muscle spasms. The pain meds haven’t kicked in. I feel like I’m waiting on a woman in labor, trying to sneak a hug in between contractions. I make my way to her bosom and hold her as tight as she’ll let me. She pushes me away too soon and grabs her knees, wincing in pain. Another spasm. Sigh.
“I love you Biji. I’ll see you soon, okay.” 
“Go. Go. Your uncle’s waiting.”
“I’m praying for you.” 
“I know.”
On the first leg of my flight home, I try to sleep, wanting to have some energy for my girls and hubby when I return. I have an hour layover in North Carolina again, and as I stroll toward my new gate, the sale signs everywhere captivate me. I’m too sleepy to talk myself out of it as the magic scarf lassos me in. Doesn’t help that the poster over a row of shelves lined with M&M t-shirts reads, “All items $5.” When you have four girls, this sign ranks right up there with dark chocolate covered pomegranates. Four t-shirts, an adult male long sleeve, and a brown magic scarf later, I gather my bags to board the final leg of my flight back to New York. 
Shortly before the U.S. Airways announcer calls, “Zone 3,” I decide to give the scarf a whirl. I pull off the tag and fiddle with a few different options of tying it, draping it, and then wrapping it around my neck. I am not impressed. It’s not so magical after all. In fact when I arrive outside of baggage claim and receive my hugs and kisses from hubby and the girls, the first thing I hear after, “How was your trip?” is “Mom, are you wearing that scarf right?”
I laugh. Should’ve saved my $9.99. I turn to hubby and ask, “Is it that bad?”
“Hmmm?” He looks me over while rubbing his goatee. “Kinda reminds me of an oversized scrunchy. So if you’re going for that look, you’re good.”
“Very funny.” I take the brown cloth off. I feel like it’s choking me at this point.
“Better.” Hubby nods with a smile. 
We all laugh. It’s good to be home. 
Staring out my window at the mad traffic synonymous with NYC, my eyes move up to see a plane flying overhead. Perhaps Mr. Photographer Pilot Guy is captain today. Taking close ups of the New York skyline.
My thoughts quickly drift to my grandma. Wonder when I’ll see her again. I silently pray for her days ahead. For joy, for peace, and less pain as well. Don’t know what kind of storms lay ahead Biji. Wouldn’t life be different if we could hover nearby at a safe distance, while the storms of life passed? Or fly around them? 
And just like the false promises of a scarf that clearly possesses no magic, I know there are no guarantees. But I pray I’ll see her again anyway. Because I’m not done. 
I’m not done loving her. 
______________________________

Have you ever bought something and soon regretted it?!? or 
Is there someone you wish you could visit and spend more time with?

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Dive Into Another Waterfall:

Gravity. And Things That Ground Me.
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6 thoughts on “Storms, Love, and a Magic Scarf”

  4. “Kinda reminds me of an oversized scrunchy. So if you’re going for that look, you’re good.”

    i laughed so hard when i read that part 😛

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