The years teach how to neglect the sadness, turn it away like a beggar's hand. When he goes there is little else I know to do. In the airport I want to speak, but past failures thicken my tongue and when the gate agent calls we hug goodbye. I watch him disappear down the long ramp. He does not look back. Following my feet toward short-term parking, I check my watch, the shopping list in my pocket, drive out of the lot to the nearby Safeway where I open the door to the roar of jet engines overhead, look up and see his plane reaching into the sky as I hear myself, like a cheerleader who never quite made the team, saying, "Aalll-riiight!! Go for it, son!" calling into the roar above a celebration of this unexpected, extra moment of love.