The plane backed away from the gate, rolled for a bit, and then stopped. A few minutes later, the pilot came on the intercom and said there was a problem with one of the engines. They were trying to locate a part so it could be repaired.

I leaned my head back and took a nap.

An hour later, I woke up, and we were still in exactly the same place. Every now and then, the engine would rev up, only to wind back down again. I pulled out my book, Theo of Golden, and started reading.

Two hours later—three hours after we had first boarded—the pilot came back on. Unfortunately, the engine couldn’t be fixed.

A collective sigh filled the cabin.

Honestly, I was just thankful we weren’t taking off with an engine problem. The pilot explained that Air France would be arranging hotels, rebooking flights, and taking care of all the logistics. As I listened, I thought, Can you imagine having to manage 300 passengers, all their luggage, hotels, transportation, and new flights? I was very glad that wasn’t my job.

I was simply happy to get off the plane.

I called my closest friend, Erika, who lives about 40 minutes from the airport. My family lives three hours away, so asking them to come pick me up only to drive me back the next day didn’t make any sense.

Considering the situation, Air France handled everything remarkably well.

It took another three hours before I finally got my luggage.

Well… “luggage” is a funny word for it.

Normally, I travel with only a carry-on when I come home. This time, though, I checked a cardboard box. A 45-pound cardboard box.

Inside were books, walnuts, chocolate chips, vanilla, more books for Gabriel, some twirly dresses for Olivia, jeans for Yann, and a few other things.

My plan seemed so simple. I would check the box at the airport, fly to France, and Yann would pick me up. Easy peasy.

Not so easy peasy when your plane has mechanical problems and everyone has to deplane.

After waiting three hours at the baggage carousel for my 45-pound cardboard box, I finally got it. Then I rented a cart because there was no way I was carrying that monster to the car.

When Air France finally proposed a new itinerary, it included three layovers. No, thank you. I called the airline and rebooked my flight.

Now I’m leaving tomorrow instead—two days later than planned.

The silver lining? I get to spend some unexpected time with my friend Erika.

Of course, had I known all this was going to happen, I would have stayed three extra days with my mom instead of heading to the airport.

That’s the thing about traveling long distances: you have to expect the unexpected.

And as for checking a 45-pound cardboard box never again…

Well…

Maybe I will.

               

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It asks more of me now- this goodbye pierced heavier, and deeper.

This time, something happened that caught me off guard. I cried uncontrollably at the airport. I remembered the first time I left home for France.

I cried so hard I could barely board the plane. Once I was in my seat, before takeoff, a flight attendant came over and gently asked if I was all right, if I wanted to get off. I could not answer with words I simply shook my head no.

Forty years later. The arrivals and departures no longer travel alone. They carry everything
that came in between.

                

Comments

• The photo of you and your beautiful Mom brought tears to my ... by Annafromindiana
• I think you are weighing the facts of your mother's age and ... by Judith Wagner
• I can only imagine the difficulty in hugging the matrarch & ... by Carlaine
• In reply to Leonie. Leaving is never easy…I feel for you ... by Susanawee
• Oh Corey, I can feel your pain. I am so sorry. by BeckyFar
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In the wooden pews 
In the candlelight.
In the slow ribbon of incense rising 

Faces I have loved since childhood.
Hands reaching.
Nods across the aisle.

A sacred silence.

Every word finding its place.

Felt the presence of those who knelt here years ago.
Grandparents.
Aunts.
Uncles.
Cousins.
Neighbors.
Entire lives folded into this place- 

woven through decades.

Distance has measured my years.
Another country.
Another language.
Another life.

Even so…

One step through those church doors and the thread remained un-torn.

Perhaps that is what stayed with me.

The feeling that a life is never held by one person alone.

It rests in many hands.
Many hearts.
Many voices answering together.

A beautiful inheritance

In memory of my cousin Frances

                

Comments

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• Beautiful 🥰 by Barbara
• What beautiful words! by Ali

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My mother has always been a baker.

There were pies cooling on the counter, cakes with candles, popcorn balls wrapped for little hands, and cookies—

The recipe begins the way it always has.

Two cups of flour, sifted.

Nothing rushed, 

nothing guessed.

She reaches for the same bowl, the same measuring cups she has had for as long as I can remember. I can still picture them in the drawer when I was a child, their familiar clink against one another, dusted with flour, their edges softened by years of butter, and sugar.

Now she is ninety.

She moves more slowly. The butter takes longer to cream. The eggs are cracked with greater care. She pauses between each ingredient before stirring them together.

The joy of watching my mom repeat the same familiar gestures for a lifetime. 

The way she levels the flour, folds in the chocolate chips, and scrapes every last bit of batter from the bowl.

Nothing hurried, 

nothing wasted.

The cookies emerge from the oven as they always have, golden at the edges, unmistakably hers.

A lifetime of devotion of doing one ordinary thing with love, over and over again.

                

Comments

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Zip lining is one of those experiences that makes children feel like they’re flying, and their parents wide eyed on their every move. Safely secured by a harness to a sturdy cable, they glide through the air, soaring past the trees with the wind on their faces!

The Pickles on vacation in the French Alps.

                

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