tantrums

In the Salt Lake airport, delayed for five hours, somehow completely content. I meet Todd and Mia here, a single dad and his two-year-old daughter on the way to visit grandparents in California. He is plump and sweet, soft on the inside and out. She is talkative, petite and affectionate. The stories of fatherhood, trial and treasure, run deep. I am happy to listen, taking Mia’s tiny hand in my own, walking up and down the airport halls, she points out kids and toys and planes taking off. Skipping along side me, her small legs working to keep up. After a couple hours she grows tired and impatient, as kids do, she is ready to take flight. Without warning she begins to cry. The crying grows louder until it becomes a full-blown fit. Lying on the floor screaming and crying, pumping her fists and flailing her body kind of fit. The kind of fit that lacks inhibition and reason but holds meaning and truth. The emotion rises from somewhere deep within, she doesn’t hold back, she lets it rise. Something in me relates to this. I felt this way last week. If only it were still appropriate for women my age to throw airport, fist pumping, body flailing tantrums. Instead I hold it in. Deep inside I bury the anger, the bitterness, the resentment, the pain, the mourning, the rage. And then when I expect it the least, most often when I am alone in my car, I let it rise. I bury myself in a wash of tears and breathless life dissatisfaction. The people on my street must think I’m crazy. Todd watches Mia for a moment, letting her emotion flow. He breathes deeply, and then leans over, taking her into his big fatherly hands. He pulls her to his lap and folds her into his arms, smoothing her hair with his fingers. “Mia are you sad?” he asks, putting his nose close to hers. She moves her hands to his face squeezing his cheeks gently between her tiny palms. She presses her forehead to his, the breath catching in her chest and throat as the sobbing slows. “No daddy” she says, “I’m not sad, I’m just crying.” It’s simple, and makes sense. They sit for a moment like this, still and silent his face in her hands. “Just hold me daddy,” she whispers with her eyes closed, and leans her head against his chest. “I’m right here Mia, I will always be right here,” he says into her hair. I close my eyes and lean my head back against the plastic airport seat. Voices surround me on every side, lovers, children, families, bickering, laughing, complaining; their own inner fits mimicking that of Mia’s. I hear Mia’s steady breath from her father’s arms next to me. With eyes closed, I breathe deep and know that I too am held. I know that my Father will always be right here, folding me into His plump arms as I place my tiny palms to his face.

thank you Todd and Mia.