My Life on an Airport Floor, and the Man who Picked it Up

Alone in the ripped apart pile of my life, I cried until I felt sick. I sat up to catch my breath, and to keep chunks from flying all over the sprawling mess I made on the airport floor in Cuzco that cloudy day. There wasn’t anything more I could do, so I just hung my head between my shaky knees and cried some more.

I made a real  sad spectacle out of myself, but could not care less. I lost my senses along with my passport. After sobbing so hard, I couldn’t think of anything, and without a passport, I knew I couldn’t do anything. I felt the strange tingle of on looking eyes. Hovering just above me stood a silver-haired man looking puzzled, yet empathetic. Glaring through my hot tears, his stark white shirt glowed against is tight, weathered tan skin. A shiny badge hung  from his neck that led my wet eyes up to meet his.

“What’s wrong?” he asked in soft, slow accented English.

I felt a burn rise in my throat, and I began to word vomit my pathetic predicament in pathetic Spanglish while wiping snot away with my sleeves. I strapped him in the roller coaster of emotion I had been riding, with the final twist of my passport being stolen. He paused, asked me to take a deep breath, and looked at me the way a dad looks at their daughter after showing him an owie.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’m going to help you.” Though deflated and down right scared, stranger danger gave way, and a small, weak smile cracked through as I surrendered a simple, “Ok.”

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