I gave in. I could no longer avoid a few short airline trips to celebrate a couple of special events and catch up with a few lifelong friends who are not doing well. The passing of Carole Ann just weeks after I took the plunge and flew to Florida to visit was proof enough that some things should not be delayed.
What a difference! In February, the airport was a sea of masked travelers, albeit many seemed unaware that their noses are part of their faces. Now it is mid-May, the omicron variant is surging, and I can count the number of masks worn at the airports and on planes on two hands.
Those few of us wearing masks bond immediately. We shake our heads in disbelief and occasionally share disparaging remarks about “Trumpies.”
“Thirteen dead in Buffalo” screams from the airport television monitors, replacing news about stock prices spiraling out of control and Ukrainians running for cover from Russian artillery. And yet, travelers around me all seem to be committed to behaving as if life is as normal as a ’60s family sitcom.
In my mind’s eye, I imagine a terminal full of ostriches clucking and flapping their long necks aimlessly. Or perhaps they’re looking for the sand
Carole J. Garrison 