The Stuffing of Life

It never ceases to amaze me, the sight of New York City from the air after dark.

Last night, as we leveled off before the final descent into LaGuardia, I pressed my face against the window and watched the light show unfold. The Statue of Liberty heralded our arrival, looking like a small jewel in the converging waters of the two rivers, dwarfed now by the new tower piercing the black sky at Ground Zero.  The lights of cars on the busy highways lining the East River on both banks gave the impression that the city itself was on the move, made it seem as if the sparkling bridges criss-crossing the water might somehow dislodge themselves and float into the harbor. I felt comforted by the twinkling multi-colored spire of the Empire State Building, still, despite all the changes to the skyline over the years, dominating the midtown skyline. Dependable, a venerable survivor.

Reluctantly, I pulled my face back from the glass; time to kick my bag under the seat in front of me, check my seat belt, ready myself for landing and avoid the sharp admonishment of a tired flight attendant. The man in the seat next to me was staring at me, a kind but puzzled stare. I felt embarrassed for having obstructed his view, but nowhere near as embarrassed as I had felt earlier in the flight when I uttered some gibberish in my half-sleep, drawing his attention away from his IPad. (He had seemed willing to chat; I pretended to not know where the noise had come from.) Certainly nowhere near as embarrassed as I would have felt had he woken from his own restless sleep to find me struggling in vain to see the print on the crossword puzzle I had retrieved from the floor, gazing up overhead to be sure my light was on. (It was; instead of grabbing my reading glasses from my purse, I had grabbed my sunglasses, and, I would imagine, was looking like a bit of a lunatic).

Yes, after so many years of approaching New York by air, though I have become a dotty middle aged woman who talks to herself, wears sunglasses in the dark, and practically licks the window to see the sights, I still feel childlike and small. Mesmerized, rude, goofy, disoriented. Playing dress-up with oversized sunglasses. And still, after so many years, looking forward – in an ambivalent sort of way – to catching a glimpse of my mom as she awaits my arrival in the terminal.

My daughter spotted her first. There she was, in the same spot she has been in for years, first with my father by her side, then alone. Despite the crowd, she always stands out, with her helmet of hair blown and sprayed completely out of proportion in preparation for the holidays, her Burberry plaid coat and Fendi pocketbook looking exceptionally large around her shrinking frame. I can tell from the smiles on the faces of the folks surrounding her that they all know everything about us – our names, where we live, how excited she is that we are coming in. I always half expect to see some of these people sitting at our Thanksgiving table later in the week.

It is hard to believe my mom is on the verge of turning eighty-two. It is just as hard to believe I am no longer carrying a baby or schlepping bags of picked through snacks or sporting some child’s puke on the front of my shirt. It’s just me and my youngest this time, and we did not even sit together. Her brother is in Japan, her sister is on a different plane, her father will just have to wait until Christmas for the big family visit on his side of things. I wonder where the years have gone, wonder how many more years there can possibly be of coming home to the inherently annoying but oddly comforting sight of mom waiting for me at the airport. I know she is thinking the same thing. Frankly, she’s been thinking it for five hours. (She’s been at the airport since before we took off from Chicago; you never know how much traffic you’ll hit).

When our plane finally bounced onto the runway, the kind man next to me asked me how I did on my crossword puzzle. Since my eyes had only been open briefly, and then only with sunglasses impeding their view, I had not done very well at all. I wondered if he had caught the whole sunglasses episode and had been too polite to say anything. He admitted he had not gotten very far with his reading either. I wondered if he, too, was feeling preoccupied and a bit childlike, coming home, maybe, to a life lived in another time.

We have been through a lot over the years – my mom, me, New York. My children too, but – happily -- they have not yet crossed the threshold into an adulthood where a shrinking future becomes dwarfed by a looming past. Hopefully, they have lots of time ahead of them to explore, to change, time before they need to seek comfort in the humdrum routine of being welcomed by an elderly mother who defies old age and a grand city that continues to beat back adversity like nobody’s business.

Birds of a feather, those two, two tough old birds. They go well together, my mom and New York, and, every once in awhile, it’s nice – amazing even -- to come home.

(And speaking of birds…Happy Thanksgiving to all!!!!!)