More to the Story, Poetic Bloomings, Canada 12

 Maybe There’s More to the Story

 

There was nothing I could do.

Rules are rules.

The retirement-age lady stared at me with icy eyes,

“You can’t give me MY suitcase?”

“I work for American,” I explained,

“You fly with United.

“A United worker should come by soon.”

 

The lady breathed out her frustration

and stormed off.

How rude and quick tempered, I thought.

I had met all kinds

Working at this small Durango, Colorado airport

these twenty-some years.

But maybe there’s more to the story.

 

Maybe two days earlier she started in Quebec City

when there was an ice storm.

Maybe she sat on the plane with her traveling companion

for hours as workers tried to de-ice the plane.

Maybe they taxied to the runway,

but the pilot waited out reported turbulence,

then the plane needed de-iced again.

Maybe it was too windy for the sprayer,

so the flight was cancelled.

 

Maybe she and her traveling partner

dished out money for a taxi and hotel.

Maybe they had to get up at three AM

and then stand in a long line at the airport.

Then maybe they made it through security

and waited some more

as the second plane was delayed,

as authorities decided

if it was safe enough to fly in the blizzard.

 

And then, maybe they finally made it to Newark

where she and her traveling partner went their own ways.

And maybe this lady went through the long process

of rechecking her bag, going through customs,

taking the sky train to the right terminal,

and taking a shuttle to the right place in the terminal.

Maybe by the time she got there she missed her flight to Denver

and was told she’d have to wait till six AM to get the next flight out.

 

Maybe she wandered around for hours, passing the time,

eating, dozing off and in her wandering

learned another plane was leaving for Denver in the evening.

Maybe with a prayer and fingers crossed,

 she signed up for standby.

Then maybe she got on the plane and it was delayed again.

Maybe there was bad turbulence a good part of the flight,

bouncing up and down like an old pickup on a dirt road.

Maybe by the time she made it to Denver,

she missed the plane to Durango.

Maybe the next available flight wasn’t till three PM the next day.

Maybe she got on standby again for the eight AM flight.

 

Maybe she tried to sleep all night

on a small couch in the Denver airport

next to a moving sidewalk that went clackety clack,

with the loud speaker blaring reminding people

to watch their luggage and not accept anyone’s else’s,

and the janitorial staff operating their noisy equipment.

Maybe the lights were bright and the air was cold.

 

Maybe she got up early, hoping and praying

she’d make the flight to Durango at eight AM.

 Maybe her blood pressure meds had run out

and she was feeling headachy.

Maybe she did make it on the flight

and by the time she got to me,

she had one more hour to drive 

over the mountain to the next town

to make it home.

 

Maybe when I couldn’t give her luggage,

it was the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.

When the United personnel finally came

maybe the traveler tried to apologize

as she explained she’d been trying to get home

for over fifty hours.

 

Maybe she made it home okay,

happily reunited with her husband,

had a good meal,

and took a nap.

Maybe her behavior

was understandable.