You know from the time they’re babies that they will fly away on their own someday, off to somewhere new. I guess the good news is that if you pay the airfare, they are sort of obligated to come back home when you say they have to. That’s a comfort.
Savannah flew by herself to Tel Aviv to visit a friend. Now she’s old enough to fly alone, sans apron strings, with just a backpack and a camera (I taught her the camera part). On the last day of her stay, Savannah went off on her own, joined a tour of Jerusalem, just her and a bunch of Asian tourists.
She sent us this photo that day. When I saw it, I felt overwhelmingly and inexplicably proud of my little girl, who has grown up to not be afraid to be sandwiched between a Palestinian and a Colombian on some side street in Jerusalem. She’s starting to understand that though the world doesn’t suffer fools, it’s not out to make you suffer either. If you open your arms to it, it’s usually going to hug you back.
I had never been to Buffalo, Oklahoma, but there I was on a Sunday afternoon, leaning up against the brick wall of Subway, eating a sandwich in the skinny shade the tiny eve overhead was throwing down. None of the town’s 1,300 inhabitants seemed to exist, the streets were dead. But then a big Ford pulled up and parked across the road, a man jumped out, drawling into his phone and smoking a cigarette. He ambled toward me and good-naturedly offered to buy my motorcycle like we’d known each other since forever.
We talked for a long time, me and William. One o’ clock became two o’ clock. He told me he sells flower seeds but he used to work in the oil industry, worked in Oman back in the 80s. “Should’ve stuck with it,” he said. “I’d have a nicer Ford.”
He said he never meant to get stuck in Buffalo. He stared past me at the little town and the grass and scrub beyond it that curves away to all the places you can’t see, you just have faith they’re there. His graying hair flittered a little in a zephyr. The creases in his tanned face didn’t lead anywhere.
A truck eased past us just then, the driver waved, William waved back. I said, “This place seems like a good home to me.” William nodded and spit and smiled a little. When it was time for me to go, he hugged me, a middle America side man hug, and I hugged him back. I had not woken up that morning expecting to hug a strange man in a Subway parking lot in rural Oklahoma. But the world isn’t so bad. It usually hugs you back.
Jersualem, Oklahoma, someone you don’t know on your street in your hometown. Little unknown worlds all over. We open our arms, breathe in, breathe out. There goes the fear.