Day 6: Airplanes

As I drove an older man and his daughter to the airport today, I thought about their bravery. The gentlemen was slightly deaf, so the young girl—just 12 years old—had to compensate. She was mature beyond her years, with big eyes and long braids. 

She told me her family came from Honduras, where they grew vegetables for a living. She and her father had to wait in Juarez for months before they were allowed entry into the United States.  

Her sister has lived in Fort Meyers, Florida for the past 14 years. This was their final destination. 

They had never ridden in an airplane before. They asked me what it was like, how to get through security, and how they would find where they needed to go. We had stapled a sign to their bag that said: "I don't speak English. Please help me find my gate." 

I reassured them that it was easy and that people in the United States fly all the time. I told them to sit by a window—that it's amazing how the buildings, trees, and mountains look so tiny from above. 

Before I left, I made sure to tell the little girl that I was in awe of her courage. I could never have been so collected, responsible, and composed at the age of 12. 

The airport felt sterile and uninviting as I left. 

I'm lying awake now, wondering if they are about to board their 11 pm layover flight in Denver, and hoping that there were nice people that helped them along the way. 

I'm thinking about how the young girl has never had the opportunity to meet her older sister, and about how happy the father will be to hug his daughter after so many years. 

(Texas skies over McKelligon Canyon Road.)