Breathing at the airport

He says he is going on a meditation

retreat, southern France, by way of

Barcelona, the only flight he could get

out. Why France, I ask, he doesn’t know

just knows he wants to meditate, the

young man who could be my son. I ask

him if he’s heard of Thich Nhat Hahn

and he says no, chuckles, says he’s

new to this meditation-thing and asks

who he is and I tell him about his

village in France and his anti-war

protests and his attempts to bring people

together. To find peace. And he tells

me about his work in non-violent

communication. In Gaza. Before the

war. And we sit in silence, tell me

about his meditation the man asks

and I say let’s try, so we close our

eyes, breathing in I know I am breathing

in, breathing out I know I am breathing out,

and I realize I haven’t breathed a full

breath all day. Or maybe more like

days. But here, on the chair I feel

reckless, indulge in  the luxury of a complete

inhale. Feel full lungs, what are these?

And I remember seeing an x-ray once

of smoker lungs all grey and

crackly and I feel all grey and crackly

and I open my eyes and he opens his

eyes and we sit for a while. Without

words.