This story originally ran in November 2018. Read on for an update from the author on her son.
The days on either end of Thanksgiving are the nation’s busiest when it comes to travel. When my husband and I decided to spend the holiday with my family in Kansas, we knew that the flights from New York would be packed, that the airport security lines would be long, that everything would be slower and more frustrating because of the volume of fellow travelers. My husband, a frequent business flyer, dreaded the chaos of being trapped on a plane with a bunch of screaming babies. Our son, who is 12, was mostly concerned about whether we’d get an airplane with a screen so he could watch a movie.
As for me, being a sap for holidays, I tried to focus on the fact that even the most aggravatingly befuddled person in front of me at the kiosk was likely going to see loved ones. So what if he couldn’t figure out how to insert his credit card, or she didn’t know about taking off shoes? Their presence in the busy airport was a sign of love ― the enduring bonds of which prompt so many of us to make a pilgrimage to that place we call home.
For inspiration, I replayed the airport scenes from “Love Actually” in my mind, imagining the Beach Boys singing “God Only Knows” as random passengers hug their dear ones. After all, I thought, the only thing that matters ever ― and which at their best, holidays remind us of ― is our connection to family, or the chosen family of friends, that feeling of warmth, safety and belonging that all human beings crave.
