The Ripple

 Dallas Love Field is an airport drenched with blue. The cloudless sky, vibrant aircraft liveries and, of course, the feelings that wrench my heart into pieces. This might be overstating things- the organ that beats in my chest has never been more complete. Really, it's my soul that is being separated from another. For this reason, I am blue.

Saying goodbye is an inevitable part of a long-distance relationship. As I meander through the terminal, I am certain that this pain of separation is worth it. I'd rather be alone and yearning than be with someone else.

How wholly he loves me! I am not a pile of earth, sifted through for gemstones. He takes me, mud and all. The way he's accepted me entirely: my redeeming qualities and the traits that contribute to my therapy session every two weeks. Surely, the one that best exemplifies the meaning of kindness is the one that thwarts every attempt of self-deprecation. He makes my heart lighter, my compassion brighter. I seek ways to inspire a smile. If a stranger should turn to me, cheeks upturned in an unexpected grin, the world is certainly not as evil as we're led to believe. Loving him makes me want to love the world.

The airport is a hive for all walks of life. Those that make you question the existence of shame. Those that run faster than an Olympic medalist. Everyone with their minds focused on the destination. Some, noses buried in flowers reeking of homecoming, relay the significance of the journey. My layover becomes a personal mission. I crave to understand these people, to accept them, their vices and virtues. I am only one person, but I am a droplet that can cause a ripple in the ocean. Ripples have ways of changing the world.

A man in a suit worth my ticket twice over is tapping his foot impatiently behind me. The line for coffee and cinnamon rolls is long. When I pay for his morning miracle, he tells me about his granddaughter. She waits for him in Tucson, with aspirations of warm hugs and visits to the Zoo. It's been a year since the previous visit, and his flight is delayed. I am confronted with the fact that even men in expensive suits have cuts that bleed red.

Later, I feel the gentle pressure of fingertips kneading into my neck. The Massage Bar has been a consistent ritual for me. From experience, I know that loose muscles make for a more pleasant flight. It also makes the airport seem less crowded, the hustle and bustle a bit slower. This hour-long relaxation period nudges the passing time along. Minutes always seem to pass quickly when it's something you don't want to end. In this short span, however, I have learned my masseuse is named Stella. She doesn't normally work weekends, but with Christmas coming up, it's necessary.

"Are you saving up for a gift?" I wonder.

"Kind of." She responds absentmindedly, focused on her task at hand. Then, without any additional prodding, Stella tells me about her daughter and a music box she wants to buy her. It's an old fashioned one, pale pink with gilded edges. The inside is plush velvet, a ballerina that circles to the melody of Clair De Lune. Stella doesn't notice the exorbitant tip I write on the line above the total, nor do I mention it. Humanity is a feat that doesn't thrive from commendation.

My thoughts hum happily. I imagine an ecstatic child on Christmas, spinning in a circle, arms above her head.

I sit, feeling full to the brim of contentment. My flight is announced on the loudspeaker. Already the day has swirled from me, the braids of time uncoiling into a starry night. My plane is here, blinking in the darkness, beckoning me home.

As I settle comfortably into my seat, I see a girl about my age struggling down the aisle. Our eyes make contact beneath the dim reading light, and I just know she'll be joining me. The unspoken inquiry looms in her eyes. Before she has the chance to ask, I stand up, gesturing for her to slide in. Her face is sallow, the bags under her eyes are prominent. Even so, there is a vibrancy that she exudes when she speaks to me.

"Thank you." She gushes, relief saturates every word. "I've never had a window seat. Or any seat, actually."

The luggage that clunks behind her I lift easily into the overhead bin. My new comrade thanks me enough that her gratitude could cover everyone on this plane. She waffles between talking to me and staring out the window, a sparkle in her eyes clearly untouched by the dullness of repetition. She confides to me that this is both her first and last flight. Underneath her beanie is bare skin. The diagnosis she has been given grants her two more months to make the most of life.

"What brings you to Pittsburgh?" I wonder. Her answer is ironic, for it is the same thing that takes me away from Dallas. Her boyfriend lives far away too.

"They should just change places." I say, and we pout together, before breaking into peals of laughter that annoys the other passengers.

I'm lucky. While I can go to Dallas whenever I please, there is no such thing as a round-trip ticket to heaven. The flight ends much too fast. After landing, we say goodbye at the gate. My new friend throws her arms around me. I've made her day, she says.

I have a feeling of upmost elation that swells in my chest. It derives from the way I've loved the world today. The same way he loves me, completely and utterly, limitless and without rationality. This, I surmise, was the best way to give back a little of what I've been given. Should this kindness be unreciprocated, my resolve will not falter.

I am a ripple. Ripples change the world.