for Artie                                                                                  

The plane to Charlotte is late                                                  
and the gate won’t open
for air. Lights pass in the sky,
and one must be the twinkle
in your eye. Travelers hold
little mirrors in their hands, without
reflection, unaware the massive
amount of breathing in this place,
all of us existing in a box
until the mask on a mouth
can’t save us, and more than a plane
goes down. Without notice.
Without time to reach for the hand
in the next seat over. I’m stuck
at this gate between here and there,
just waiting, counting breaths,
while you so quietly moved on.

– Beth Williams

Author’s Note: This poem started when I received a phone call that a friend had died. I was waiting at the gate for my plane and wasn’t able to embrace my emotions at the time. But looking around, it seemed no one was even aware of my presence.