The fellow at Arrivals kept on turning his body ever so slightly.
His hands were clasped behind his back, blue jeans, brown loafers, coat unzipped, I’d guess in his early sixties.
I walked towards him. My body was slumped and small, defeated by little sleep and a lot of rushed meals. You just keep walking to your flight, I told myself. So, I walked. Under large metal beams, past the big airplanes and even bigger airplane hangars outside.
And with nothing better to do, I watched this fellow up ahead of me.
Every so often, he would take a little step towards the baggage carousel, go up on his toes to reread the Arrivals board, then return to earth and turn his body ever so slightly to face forward.
As I got closer to him, I saw that his hands weren’t clasped behind him. They were holding a little bouquet of carnations. And he kept turning to be sure they were hidden from whomever they were for.
There was something beautiful about it. Here this fellow was, surrounded by huge beams and planes and buildings, and his near total focus was on keeping a small bundle of flowers that probably cost about five bucks a surprise.
And it was a lovely human reminder: there’s sweetness in the world, too.
I left the fellow in Arrivals, left him turning his body ever so slightly, keeping this little bunch of sweetness safe.