She bounded down the airport steps, taking two at a time with her fast feet, flying toward me so quickly that with my poor vision I wasn't quite sure it was Laura. "Rachie," I asked my youngest daughter, "do you see her?"
The whole family had come to the airport to greet Laura, the girl who had left us behind three months earlier for study in California. A family accustomed to picking up returning travelers at the curb, we parked our cars in the short-term parking lot and gathered at the bottom of the steps near the silver turntable where she would collect her luggage. I stood closest to the steps, my family needling me about my eagerness and the other travelers' inability to exit the steps.
The girl I'd spotted flew into my arms, squealing. The hug felt the same, but who was this young woman, glossy dark hair ironed straight, with china doll bangs tipping her eyelashes? Wearing clothes I'd never seen, this young woman didn't belong in Pittsburgh with her dark water-colored jersey, crisp jeans, and a leather boho funk bag bought in San Francisco. Hello, my girl, what's new?
Three short weeks later, we're back at the airport, fighting the three across jigsaw of cars in the Departing Flights lane. She slides out of the backseat, smiling and giddy with anticipation of another quarter in California. Three hugs, and she's gone. Will I ever get used to this?
Her bangs pinned back, the rest of her hair hangs loose in swirly curls. Sweatsuit clad, she struggles to manage her overstuffed bags, and, as she disappears inside the sliding glass doors, I see her bedraggled red bear's nearly flat head peeking back at me from within her trendy leather bag.
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