Ode to the Airport Dropoff

Today I dropped my mother off at the airport. She’d been out helping us with the twins and after a month I am not sure who was ready for her to leave more - my mother or my wife. All jesting aside, I got to do the proverbial airport drop-off this morning.

This is always awkward. At least it is for me. I have two clear realities with airports. There were airports before 911 and there are airports now.

Before 911 I recall the relaxed airport drop-off. You could lollygag at the terminal entrance and have a real goodbye. There wasn’t any pressure to make the moment happen - you had time to let the moment unfold.

After 911 this simple activity has taken on a new meaning - at least for me.

You drive up to the terminal and the fuzz is there, always there. There is no time, in fact, if you delay they’ll stop by and usher you along. The whole thing feels like you are in the danger zone.

How do you properly say goodbye and comfortably send your loved ones on their way? You almost want to give them a flack jacket and a helmet, though I am sure the TSA wouldn’t allow those things through security.

This morning I was reminded of simpler times when the word terror wasn’t associated with the airport. I wonder if that time will ever return or if for the rest of my life the airport drop-off will be like an exercise in putting out a fire.

Stop.

Drop.

And Roll.