"You have arrived," announced the mechanical voice of the GPS as my husband pulled to the curb at Logan. He popped the trunk and we hopped out to extract the luggage.
"Hopefully, it won't take long," he called through a half-open window. "I may have to park at her old dorm and Uber back!"
Her eyes narrowed to stabby points for a moment. It was too soon to be making jokes. Especially since the whole car ride there, we'd been offering the sage advice of Gus Portokalos from My Big Fat Greek Wedding, by riffing on the various miracle uses of Windex, including, to my husband's disbelief, the removal of wedding bands that have become too tight.
She rolled her eyes, but questioned her own judgment having just settled into this college city she was now flying away from, not to mention bringing us for the sendoff.
We each dragged a suitcase into the terminal. She lugged the heaviest, the one that would have to fly in the belly of the plane. I steered the stylish carry-on, an indescribable color of pale blue. We came to a stop just before the tape maze where would-be passengers know instinctively how to coil their way around, single file, on the first leg of this journey .... to greet an agent at the check-in point.
"I have to pee."
We had set our clocks to "Egregiously Early" and it only added to the anxiety.
"I'll go with, and stand with the bags."
The bathroom was mostly unremarkable. It was clean and well-lit. Its surfaces are modestly tiled in ceramic and steel. The only surprise was planted in a basket to the left of the sink: a live orchid, festooned with white flowers reaching out like a hug.
This must be a good sign, I think as I wash my hands.
"I'm glad you stayed," my daughter says as I roll the suitcase her way. "I think I'd be fur-reaking out if I had to wait here by myself."
I want to say something encouraging, something to put her at ease, but I know it's not my forte.
"We have nothing to fear except fear itself. ... Especially since WE are not traveling Southwest."
"Of course by 'WE,' she means it in the Royal sense," says her dad, who has returned from the hinterlands and has found a place in line.
We certainly look the part of a family getting ready to take off.
I am still pushing around a suitcase, and he is serenading her with fatherly advice, bad jokes, and travel tips that must be decades old by now.
She reminds him of all the leg work she's done to get here: Not only the scheduling of her studies abroad but also the logistical details like applying for VISAs and booking travel.
She smiles to tamp down the shards of annoyance that have fractured her voice, reminding us that we are not in this together. Once the airline exchanges a ticket for her luggage at the counter, she will fly away.
I change the subject to the orchid. Telling my husband of the wonderment of finding such a showy plant in the restroom, wondering who cares for it, and trying to guess what it means.
"Did you know? The word 'orchid' comes from the Greek, 'orkhis,' which means testicle! So why isn't there one in the men's room?"
And on the heels of the comedy stylings of her parents, our firstborn child opens her arms for a final hug before heading to her gate.
"Not gonna lie, I'm a little glad that I can't take you anywhere."
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