hold me.

So I travel, oh, I dunno, let's say a LOT, through airports, most of it wearing that shit kicking business armor that I put on when I'm on the clock.

And, after the initial strip down, I usually move through security without incident, gather my goods and continue to the gate.

But this morning, after rising at 3 AM and driving through the dark and the cold to board a plane that will take me to the many tears of Phoenix where my grandmother lays dying instead of the weekend of laughter long ago planned with friends; planned long before Nini -- who was expected to live to 100, hale and strong and sharp -- felt the slow ache in her back, the shooting pain across her chest, the knocking on the door of normalcy called cancer.

So this morning, of all mornings, they decide to mark me and pull me into the "special" line, call me solicitously by my last name and swab my boots and paw through my bag.

This morning I'm the enemy, and, with my exoskeleton split wide open to expose my soft underbelly, they pull me into the pen and pat me down with unfeeling hands sheathed in plastic gloves.

This morning, when all I ache for is to be held close, to remember where I end and the rest of the world begins, this morning they brush their hands unfeelingly across all my extremeties as though I'm packing malice aforethought, and then, just as they tip me past the point of tolerance (how can anyone so acutely *not see* another human being?), turn abruptly and send me on my way.

Outbound to Phoenix.
To grandmother's house we go.