The last time I saw my husband was five months and four days ago. I have said goodbye to him three times at the Mexico City airport. This last was by far the hardest.
The first time the tears mostly came the night before. When we arrived at the airport he refused to ask directions for me to get into the check-in. We lost nearly 30 minutes with him leading me around without a clue. I finally just took off following the signs he didn’t trust and found myself where I needed to be. By the time I reached security, I was steaming angry at him and risking missing my flight. Right as I was about to reach the ticket and passport check, he called me back in tears. Despite my worry about the flight, I came back to him and cried with him for a few moments, before resuming my mad dash through security and to my gate.
The second time, he once again refused to ask questions. This time he was convinced that the taxi driver needed to take us to terminal one, because he knew all international flights left from there. Our driver tried to tell him that Continental leaves from Terminal Two, but he would not, could not, listen. We were late getting there no matter as Sal had been convinced that it really didn’t take all that much time to get from Pachuca to Mexico City and he thought I was crazy for forcing him to leave two hours earlier than he could even fathom being necessary; we ended up in hours of stand still thanks to protestors blocking the way. By the time we made it to the wrong terminal, we knew that there was a very good chance I was not going to make my flight. We ran through the airport to reach the train, which he was not allowed on without a plane reservation; we quickly kissed and I ran off. I do not know if he tried to call me back that time because I never looked back.
The third time the both of us had learned our lessons. We left early, took a comfy bus, and made certain my flight was leaving from Terminal 1, not 2. We arrived with time to spare, so we sat down at an overpriced restaurant. Time dragged on and simultaneously went too quickly. I cried three times in his arms before I went through security. I wasn’t angry at him, so I felt the freedom to actually be sad this time. I cried off and on the entire way home, from Mexico City to Dallas, from Dallas to St. Louis.
That was five months and four days ago. In exactly two months I will be repeating these scenes in some manner, except this time with family and friends. Two months until I touch down once more in Mexico City and then head for the highway to start my new life, once again with Sal.