I write in long hand -- something, I guess, that is unusual for writers in general, I don't know. In today’s technologically abstract world, if you don't have a computer screen blinking a cursor at you on its digital page you are extinct. I feel extinct some days. I have lost touch with technology.

I guess I write long hand because paper and pen are so much more available then to lay ones hands on a laptop. I don't own a laptop. I do own a computer, which takes up nearly 50% of the desk it occupies. I write there too. I am working on a novel, which should be finished shortly -- Christmas by my estimations. The story is done in my head; many of the pages are typed and unedited. I am a poor writer, both monetarily and grammatically. Not surprising since I never graduated high school. At the time, it was a bore, I needed an escape -- I joined the service. (Not a very good escape, take it from me.)

I filed that experience away in the apothecary chest of endless drawers in my mind, along with most of the other experiences. Some easier to find then others. (Because I remembered to label some of the drawers, but alas not all of them.)

Traffic Jam of Ideas

I sit.

I sit looking at a blank page, not waiting for inspiration. I have plenty of inspiration. My brain is a traffic jam of ideas, I wait for the chaos to clear so I can pick out an elegant one, a single elegant idea on which to write about today.

As a writer, I keep a few things with me at all times. One is a pen, the second is paper, usually a spiral notebook, and third is a book -- it is usually the book I am reading that week, or weekend, depending on how good the book is. I can eat up books like potato chips -- One is just never enough.

I will dip into the well of writing from my notebook for this next story. It is a glimpse of something we all see at one time or another, but may take for granted. It is the airport. This is what I saw the day I picked up my daughter.

The Airport

The airport is a busy milling of ants running here and there, chauffeurs standing like statues holding illuminated signs of passengers they whisk away to exciting, and boring places. Eyes race to a fro looking for family faces, signs of information and baggage claim carousels.

People who are traveling alone are the most expeditious, finding their avenues of exit quickly and easily.

There is a man with three small children in tow, things dangling from every possible clip on his already overflowing backpack, each hand filled with a smaller, more delicate one. They look at him with awe and wonder, their protector.

Women in heels, click clack their way across the floor, always perplexing me. How do they maneuver in airports making connections in hubs demanding miles of legwork?

A young couple is holding hands, tired from their journey. Who knows how many hours they flew? That same couple, aged with years of travel and worldly trials, walks thirty or so feet behind their younger selves, still hand in hand, still smiling, still tired from hours of travel and he still loves her, you can tell. He glances at her, making sure he isn’t dreaming, she smiles and grips his hand a little tighter.

A women stands with me at carousel “J” for the United flight -- on time. She is waiting to see her daughter. It’s a reunion. They haven’t seen one another in twenty years. Anxiety bubbles in my stomach for her, butterflies and knots start making their appearance. She has twenty minutes left to wait.

I watch a young couple embrace after their absence from one another. He wears a shirt stating, “Life Begins.”

A new beginning, a new start, that is today for everyone in the airport. I decided to check the schedule again. I want to embrace my daughter; I miss her.

I want our life to begin.