At The Curb LAX

I have dropped him at the curb at LAX hundreds of times.  

Thirty years of departures.  

Returns to New York after California visits.  

Business trips.  

Holidays.  

Routine.  

For thirteen years, Los Angeles was our home.  

For him, even longer.  

He came straight out of college because he was drafted by the Roger Corman circle —  thrown into Hollywood when the industry still felt combustible and wide open. It was  the beginning of a fantastic life and career.  

So LAX is muscle memory:  

Pull up.  

Hazards on.  

Trunk open.  

Quick kiss.  

“I’ll call when I land.”  

But we don’t travel casually anymore.  

We travel strategically.  

He flies JetBlue back to New York because terminal construction has made curbside  pickup complicated, and JetBlue lets us work around it. When he lands at JFK, he  doesn’t stand in the chaos.  

He walks to the Pan Am hotel.  

And Gifty meets him there.  

We met Gifty years ago on a random ride to JFK. Just a driver assigned through an  app. On time. Polite. Quiet. 

In New York, a driver isn’t extravagant.  

It’s necessity.  

Especially in winter.  

Especially at night.  

Especially when the margins for error get thinner.  

Over time, Gifty became part of our system.  

He understands timing.  

He notices pace.  

He waits if needed.  

And if my husband didn’t show up at the Pan Am within a reasonable window, I would  get a call.  

Not dramatic.  

Just attentive.  

That kind of reliability in New York is not luxury.  

It’s infrastructure.  

This time, I drove him to JetBlue alone.  

Four days earlier my heart had fluttered long enough to stop me.  A procedure was scheduled in Los Angeles.  

We were supposed to fly back together.  

Instead, I stayed.  

He lifted his suitcase from the trunk.  

Stood there a second longer than usual.  

Not fragile.  

Aware.  

He walked into JetBlue.  

He landed.  

He walked to the hotel.  

Gifty picked him up.  

The apartment lights came on. 

The system worked.  

He managed winter in Manhattan.  

He worked.  

He played ping pong.  

He took himself to Lincoln Center because music still matters.  

He was tired some nights.  

He missed me.  

But he did not unravel.  

And something in me softened.  

For years I have quietly braced for the narrowing.  

Anticipated the stumble.  

Compensated before it arrived.  

Love can turn into vigilance without asking permission.  

But watching him move through the city — not alone, but supported by the small  systems we built — shifted something.  

Strength does not have to mean independence from everyone.  It can mean knowing who is part of your safety net.  

JetBlue.  

The Pan Am hotel.  

One reliable driver.  

The city did not swallow him.  

And I did not have to hold every detail from 3,000 miles away.  That is not extravagance.  

That is design.  

And inside that design, something opened for me.  

Space. 

Room to heal.  

Room to breathe without scanning the horizon.  

Room to imagine my own next chapter without abandoning him.  

Pull up.  

Hazards on.  

JetBlue check-in.  

Let go.  

Trust the structure.  

And find a little steadiness of my own  

still curious