Proximity Warning

We’re very early
huddled in clumps
all families, friends, and solo travelers
strange chins
orbiting screens, expectantly
taking in our surroundings
up, down, and all around
as we wait for the Bin number to pop in

“there it is! platform 9 and three quarters!”
dad jokes carry off, on the wind
killing time, as they're often meant to
when a waft of something acrid begins
to tickle my nose
yes, I guess I’ve grown more sensitive
trying to resist the unknown
call it instinct, the role of a father, sentry
she coughs
my eyes water, squinting for smoke
there, under departure board
two women hover, flying
their little planes
climb and dive in conversation
funny, how sky-writing just hangs in the air

“A DOGGY!”
my daughters cry, hopeful
break the illusion
my air show, stamped out at the fair
now, how awkward and unexpected
the two women approach me
shit, did I give them the glare?

“and who’s this little one?”
my oldest says, so loving
leaning down
knee-to-ankle to meet
two little eyes, pink tongue and
“oh hey, it’s Nola!”
her nubbin stub wagging, excitedly

they let her pet, belly rub and roll-over
command-sit, if she’ll have it that way
“oh, rare! she really likes you!”
cycling tricks
as the smoke dissipates
our eyes squint, gently, crease at the edges
in pleasant smiles, mid-formation
as the announcer says
“train number yada yada to somewhere”
“leaves from Platform 9, in 5 minutes”
we say goodbyes
wish each other safe journeys, out there
shoulder-turning, off and on our way

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This poem was inspired by a moment at the Florence train station. I was feeling irritated with how many people were smoking in close proximity to my kids. The California-American protector archetype lurking, formulating Karen-like reasons for confrontation with a world that is out to harm me and my loved ones.

Either that, or it was the anxiety of preparing to travel without knowing our platform, quite yet. Me: dropping dad jokes, as we patiently waited. I was amazed that I was so fixated on the cigarette smoke, I failed to notice the adorable dog at their feet.

This was not lost on my kids, who, after brief complaints about the coughing and smoke, immediately snapped out of it, in favor of adoring the puppy panting before us.

As usually happens with perceived enemies, as they get closer, you can see them better. People, just like us, waiting for their train. Clusters of us, scattered all over the terminal, with our own vices and stories. Our bubbles broke open, as my daughter knelt down, sharing a moment. Tension evaporates.

It made me wonder how many times we do this, throughout our day. Putting people at a distance, as Strangers. Far away, at arms-length emotionally. Compartmentalized, leveled and locked away on Andor. Plotting the jailbreak.

To take things serious, a trigger warning (violence and school shootings). My mind races out at full speed.

Remembering Uvalde, Texas. The converse sneakers, painted, my daughter had done the same. That year things started to seem different. Proximity warnings popping up on my screen. As Father figure, protector. Always scanning space, setting safe distance with barriers. Hoping that nothing would come between.

I made some irreversible changes, about our life and our scene. Moving away, out of orbit, gently. After trying to fix things: local, with no receptivity, it seemed.

Last night I looked it up: is anyone allowed to go back there, to Robb Elementary? 10 days after the shooting, they announced it would be demolished and rebuilt down the street.

What is it about our ability to change that requires proximity?

The puppy slicing through defense systems, apathy.

I want that now, more than ever.

Some shared moment where we can see, we’re all in the same orbit.

Cobalt from my phone, traced back, logistically, to human hands, down in the sand.

Aid workers only attempting to share food, saintly.

I try to find it here, in the little moments.

A baby bottle falls down, into the mud.

I pick it up and hand it to the mother. Her child sleeping, gently.

“Thanks” she says with a smile. I feel empathy.

Still, I don’t know her name.

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