Return to the Old Country

It was the best of days, and
in many ways,
the worst.
Two-van
caravan
to Carrasco airport,
friends arrived
to say goodbye.
Hugs and tears.

There was Executive-class
food and service,
but after eleven hours,
we landed in a string of storms,
after long delay.
For the first time
in six years,
I set foot
on United States
concrete.

The first three people
who spoke to me in Miami
spoke to me, just
assuming comprehension,
in Spanish.
It was everywhere,
though not the Rioplatense
I had grown used to.

Outside, for two hours,
we waited fruitlessly
for a Super Shuttle,
in spite of a two-month
reservation.
We are done with them.
We were two old people,
waiting on that curb
in the middle of the night,
trapped by our belongings.

Approaching a taxi agent,
I explained our
big problem.
He said, "I can do that,"
and I was never more grateful
for that familiar,
"can-do" attitude.
He sent us a wonderful
Filipino woman
in a mini-van,
who rescued us.

Now we're at the home
of a dear friend,
surrounded by palm trees.

It's easy, though,
to put myself back
on that airport
curb, with the hum
of a large fan,
put there to waft away
the carbon monoxide.
In my ear,
over and over,
the modulated hum
of the fan sounded like
"O beautiful,
for spacious skies ..."

"O beautiful,
for spacious skies..."

Text and images © 2019 by Donald C. Traxler.