Too Close for Comfort

"Momma?"

Her voice was shaky, unsure, sounding much younger than her 30 years. I could feel her fear in my bones. It became my own.

I could picture her huddled in an airport bathroom with alarms sounding out in the corridor, afraid and uncertain.

Sitting in front of the computer, the phone to my ear, toggling between a half dozen webpages: the weather radar, 2 different tornado alerts, a map of Dallas, a map of the airport and Twitter - trying to find something that would prove her safety, I felt completely helpless. "She has to be safe. Keep her safe" I silently prayed.


Her texts during her brief stop in Dallas - one where she wasn't supposed to have even deplaned - went from a cheery banter ...

...into a terrifying reality.

And then she called. We talked as they moved the passengers off the plane, into the terminal and eventually into an "Authorized Personnel Only" area in the lower part of the airport.

I was somewhat comforted being on the phone with her, but as the events unfolded and the situation became more and more dire, I began to panic a little. What if? What if I lose the connection? What if? What if the tornado hits and debris and devastation are raining down on her and I'm not there?

She can't be hurt. She can't be scared. I have to protect her.

But I couldn't. The best I could do was man the computer, stay on the phone and pray.

So I did. I reported each town the tornado hit as it traveled on its course of devastation. I obsessively watched the radar relaying to her how the storm, miraculously, was everywhere around the airport but never exactly there. "It doesn't hit there" I said. "It's south east of you and its moving north east. It's going to miss you!" I said. "But it touched down?" she asked "What about those people! Oh, Momma! Are they OK?"

Even in her own panic, she thought of others. Now I proudly reflect on what an angel of a heart she has, but at the moment it just tore at my soul. "She has to be safe. Keep her safe" I prayed again. "I cannot be talking to her for the last time, God. Please."

For one of the longest hours of my life, I stayed with her on that phone, thanking God we weren't disconnected. When the series of storms finally yielded and the break was long enough for the passengers to be lead back upstairs into the terminals, we hung up. She kept me updated through texts that her flight, fortunately, wasn't canceled. After a few more delays for various reasons she was finally safely in the air and eventually into the arms of the man she loves. There was some comfort there for me - that she was where she was happy and loved - but today as I read the horrifying news of the devastation, of the 11 dead, of exactly how close it came, I just wanted those arms that are holding her to be mine.

-KC

Liberté, égalité, fraternité

We gazed out the window at the quiet, late Sunday afternoon. Occasionally a couple, arm-in-arm, strolled along the path next to the canal. Paris closes on Sundays, or at least the part of Paris we were staying in did. The shops shuttered early if they were open at all and we were hard pressed to find a café open this late after lunch.

Needing dinner, we ventured out to the tiny market on the corner hoping to find something we could turn into a decent meal for our first night in Paris. The store was just a few steps away from the apartment, maybe five doors down. I’d noticed it when we’d driven in, but I’d mistaken it for a flower shop. The entirety of the storefront overflowed with carts filled with bouquets. Here had gathered most of our strollers, it seemed. A steady stream of people passed back and forth between the flower merchant and the restaurant across the street.

I would have walked past it still ignorantly searching for the grocery if the realization of where we were hadn’t stopped me in my tracks.

The Petit Cambodge stood closed, of course, but the sidewalk was alive with activity. Wilted bouquets were removed as fresh flowers were lay down. Votive candles twinkled in the dusk illuminating notes, postcards and photos of the fallen. It was somber, but not sorrowful. It was human kindness, patriotism and compassion.

We wandered a bit down the cobblestone streets, the tall walls of apartments along the narrow sidewalks hugging us. It felt warm and friendly. Safe.

The sky grew larger and the path widened. Before us stood the magnificent statue of Marianne in the center of the Place de la République. A symbol of the triumphant French democracy, the monument now stood covered in graffiti and surrounded by a melee of flowers, candles and words of defiant love. There was no mention of war or hate gracing the landmark, only pleas for peace and a declaration that they would not be broken. The words “même pas peur” repeated on banners and signs. Indeed, the scene was not one of fear. The crowd was as a democratic nation’s should be: filled with individuals free to emote in whatever way they wished. Yet none chose anger.

A couple holding  a sign reading “free hugs” drew me in. I carried Dia toward them, smiling and asking aloud who could turn down a hug. We embraced – all four of us – while some stranger took our photo. There were television crews everywhere, set up under canopies and working out of vans, but they remained a respectful distance from the group. This was no media circus. No one was exploiting the scene and we were free to feel whatever emotion gripped our hearts.

In my case I still have yet to find the words for that emotion. I’m not sure if I haven’t processed it clearly yet or if the words simply haven’t been invented. All I am certain of is that in that surreal first impression of our Canal St. Martin home, Paris won my respect, my love and my loyalty.