Lent, Part Two: Lead Me Not into Isolation

Life's full of little gifts, right? I am in the Cincinnati airport, a three hour serving of limbo in my travels. I took a nap, feet up on my suitcase, head dropped back against a pillar, contacts drying in my eyes. Woke up with the expected cricks and cramps, then dragged my belongings to a burrito place, and leisurely ate a wrap while enraptured by Neil Gaiman reading The Graveyard Book. I finished my food, and then began to roam for the perfect mode of gustatory closure.

And I wanted ice cream. Oh, I wanted ice cream. I would have even considered soft serve. Screw Lent, right? I do not practice Christianity in any methodical way, and we all know that to some extent, I practice Lent as a lark. I had every right to break the superficial vow- and it is Sunday too, so I could even just consider it a righteous exemption. Who cares if I eat a frozen dessert, really?

I made up my mind.

And then I saw key lime pie on a menu- staring at me like an old friend, telling me "Morgan, cut the bullshit- you need to follow through. I am here for you."

So I went into the Wolfgang Puck Cafe of the Cincinnati airport to take comfort in key lime pie and coffee. And was seated at a table in the middle of the space, crammed in next to other tables. At the two-top next to mine sat an upper-middle class black man in his sixties. On the seat across from him was a tube, for blue prints, maps or the like, and the safari/fedora hybrid style hat that certain men like to sport (I really don't know what those "certain men" have in common besides the hat, but it always makes me think "professor!"). Because of the spacing of the tables, it seemed like we were sitting with one another, across from one another. I ordered coffee and my pie, and looked forward to getting back to the glorious voice of Mr. Gaiman. The man politely asked if I minded his making a phone call. I was about to iPod up like the rest of the electronic world, so I told him I didn't mind in the least. Eventually my pie came, but the waitress first delivered it to him, not me- we all had a pleasant laugh, and then- seeing the ever-enticing key lime, he decided to order some for himself.

And then we were having dessert together. Since I'd sat down, I felt that our sharing the space like civilized people was inevitable. He is worried about his son, his only child, who he had such dreams for- that his son would have passion, ambition- a fire in his belly. That perhaps his son, a junior, would follow him into his business. Or make good on the promise of his golf swing. But his son didn't like school, the man cut the purse strings after junior year of college, the son's grades no longer meriting the money.

He says his son is charming, smart, that he is well-liked and loved. The man was just returning home to Philadelphia after the death of his last remaining sibling- and his son had been very helpful with the obituary and arrangements. But he wants his son to get a steady job, or to finish school: he is bothered by the way his son, 27, operates- deciding to turn in a job application tomorrow, rather than first thing today. And he recognizes he can't make his adult child mind him. To do things the way he would (the way he had to).

The man himself, financially secure, no longer responsible for the day-to-day welfare of his child, and divorced for a decade, enjoys a life where he has the freedom to do as he likes, and he is pleased with that. He considers that his life has been a good one, and is all too aware that he's come to a point where he has to worry about injury, and illness- that he is no longer a young man.

I often wonder to what extent children carry the wishes of their parents on their shoulders- this weight of dreams and expectations, it obviously varies from parent to parent, child to child. This man said wistfully that he'd always wished he'd had a daughter too- that he could see her now, finishing high school or in college- a girl with a head on her shoulders, getting things "right." It was, he feared, true, that men just don't mature the same way women do, that is it a slower ripening. A daughter myself (one who tries to get things "right" but has never had/kept a sensible job, but has had many a good job), I smiled. And quietly hoped he'd and his son would negotiate a peace with one another. Twenty-seven is still young.

And so we talked along these lines, slowly chewing over pie and life- quiet and content in Cincinnati. I hope he has a good journey.