Final Boarding, Boston, December 1993

The sky was a crisp blue hush,
a Saturday in December,
Logan Airport breathing frost,
a Swissair plane with engines humming.

We were late—
dressed for field service,
but Mark said “We’re going.”
And so we went—
the bus like a lost pilgrim
circled the terminals,
loop after loop,
like time refusing to stop.

I was nervous.
Tick-tock, tick-tock.
Every wrong exit,
every delayed turn
was a breath held too long.

Then—finally—arrival.
We ran.
Escalators rose like ascending prayers,
and at the top,
a chorus of teary women,
backs turned to us,
shoulders heaving.

They turned.
They saw.
Tears doubled like rain on glass.
My chest caught flame.

She was gone.
Through the gate.
Last call.

I don’t know why I ran.
But I ran.

To the guards.
To the line.
And something—some unseen music—moved them.
They had seen it all.
They had read our story in our faces.

Love was on the line.

A uniformed man ran with me—
a Boston marathon of emotion—
gate to gate,
feet to fire.

Too late.
Final boarding.

No touch. No word.
Just a note.
Written with a hand that trembled:

“Sorry, tried to make it.
I’ll call you when you get back.
Have a safe trip.”

I returned.

To the women, the tears,
the gate behind glass.
And we stood,
watching the plane,
a red-tailed rocket,
poignant against the New England sky.

And then—
a flash.

A flicker in a small window.
A signal. A spark.

We waved—
not seeing, but believing.
We waved
until the plane
became sky.