Flying High
The airport is packed, and the lines are long,
Reminiscing about the days when standing for hours was nothing when you were young.
A volunteer comes and pulls a few away to go to the next one—
Times like these used to be so much fun.
You finally cross and head to the nearest bench,
Lollygagging on your phone when a voice bellows something in French.
That voice, that tone—your eyes meet the gaze,
Your heart skips a beat, and you look up, amazed.
A chance encounter with an old flame—
The flame you tamed still feels the same.
Smiling broadly, you’re pulled into an embrace,
The smell of his cologne lingers in place.
A surge of memories brings a flush to your face;
You manage to squeak, “What’s the chance of meeting in this place?”
He is returning home to France.
You’re playing in a match of chess in his hometown—no chance of romance.
“The flight is long; let’s get together for old time’s sake.”
Your mind is saying, This could be a mistake.
The torch is still smoldering after nearly forty years.
You think of the last goodbye and the tears.
His hand reaches out to a strand of gray hair.
He winks as you take in the salt and pepper in his hair and try not to stare.
Tomorrow is not promised, but today is.
You link your hand in his; you can be his Miz.
Walking side by side and flying high,
A complete one-eighty, and you sigh.
You feel lighter; the future is brighter,
His hand holding on tighter.
A poem in the making,
Your reasoning is out the window—it’s an awakening.
What was meant to be will be.
You both agree to a degree.
You’re soaring as one and free.
Life comes with no guarantees.
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